That I do think what works so much awry
And is past reason so, the natural sense
Doth sicken in receiving it for news,
To be the absolute act and heart of truth.
I will not credit this. Yet wherefore am I
So used as prisoner here? why taxed with sin?
Why watched and kept so hard? called murderess?
I’ll be assured of it. You gaoler, you —
And yet I am afraid to call her forth.
O, she is come.
Enter Yolande.
Yol.
Did you not call for me?
Den.
I think I did cry out, being moved in sleep:
I had a dream of you.
Yol.
Ay, had you so?
And I had set a waking thought on you.
Den.
What time is it?
Yol.
Just hard upon eleven.
Den.
I have slept four hours. I pray you tell me now,
As you are gentle — I do love you much —
Is it my dream I am a prisoner?
Yol.
Did you not call me gaoler?
Den.
True, I did.
Now I begin to patch my dream again
And find the colours right. I dreamed I was
Some sort of evil beast that loved a man
And the man’s heel did bruise it in the neck.
Yol.
Take heed of it; you were a snake by this.
Den.
I do not know; it may be such I was.
I dreamed of you too; for you took me up
And hid me in a cage and gave me food —
I think I was a kind of dismal bird —
And having eaten of your seed and drunk
Water more sharp than blood, I waxed all through
Into a dull disease of overgrowth
And so was choked to death; and men there came
That roasted me for food, and having eaten
All suddenly did break in twain and die.
That was the dream.
Yol.
It was a foolish one.
Den.
Then I fell back to dream of one like you
Who held me prisoner; which was dangerous;
For I, being grown to mad rebellion,
Took thought to kill you.
Yol.
That dream was not so good.
Den.
Why do I say all this? Let me get hence,
Only the little part in heaven I have
I’ll kill myself; nay, by God’s name I will.
Yol.
Do your own way.
Den.
You shall be taxed with it,
(As I, more harmless, am) being guard of me;
I will find ways to leave the tax on you.
Yol.
Pleasure yourself; I bid you not refrain.
Den.
It is a most poor mercy that I ask.
Yol.
Too much for me.
Den.
O, it is less in worth
Than God spares barest men; the most base need on earth
Is richer in his pity than you are
In charitable use of me, who am
Too little for your scorns.
Yol.
I will not do it.
Den.
Some prayers, long while denied, are sweeter held
For being late granted; do not so with mine;
I will be thankful more than beggars are,
Made rich with grant too soon.
Yol.
Plead not to me;
I have no patience in my ears for you.
Den.
Think how you use me; even kings do leave
Some liberty to the worst worm alive,
Some piece of mercy; but you, more hard than kings,
Show no such grace as the great gaolers do
That wear at waist the keys of the world. You know
’Tis better be whole beggar and have flesh
That is but pinched by weather out of breath,
Than a safe slave with happy blood i’ the cheek
And wrists ungalled. There’s nothing in the world
So worth as freedom; pluck this freedom out,
You leave the rag and residue of man
Like a bird’s back displumed. That man that hath not
The freedom of his name, and cannot make
Such use as time and place would please him with,
But has the clog of service at his heel
Forbidding the sound gait; this is no man
But a man’s dog; the pattern of a slave
Is model for a beast.
Yol.
What do you mean by this?
Den.
To show you what unworthy pain it is
Your office lays on me.
Yol.
It is my place;
My faith is taken to assure you thus,
And you have bought such usage at my hands
By your own act.
Den.
No, by your life, I have not.
Yol.
You are impeached and must abide the proof.
Den.
The proof — ay, proof; do, put me to the proof.
There is not proof enough upon me known
To stop a needle’s bore. The man now dead
I held my friend, was sorry for his death,
Not pricked for guilt of it. Poor fool, I would
That I had borrowed such a death of him
And left him better times to boot than do
Keep company with me.
Yol.
I would you had.
Were one no better dead than stained so much?
I think so; for myself, in such a scale
The weights were easy to make choice of.
Den.
I would not die.
Yol.
Did you not say his share were easier borne?
Den.
’Tis like I said so; yet I would live long.
Yol.
Why would you so? is there such grace in you
To wear out all the bar and thwart of time
And take smooth place again? The life you have,
Like a blown candle held across the wind,
Dies in the use of it; you are not loved,
Or love would kiss out shame from either cheek,
New-join the broken patience in your eyes,
Comfort the pain of your so scarred repute
Where the brand aches on it; honoured you are not,
For the loud breath of many-mouthed esteem
Cries harsher on you than on common thieves
When they filch life and all; you are not secure,
For the most thin divisions of a day
That score the space between two breaths, to you
Are perilous implements edged with all hate
To use upon your life; you are not happy either,
For guilty, shame doth bruise your side with lead,
Or clean, why rumour stabs you in the face,
Spits in your mouth. What sweet is in this life
That you would live upon?
Den.
I do not know;
But I would live; though all things else be sharp,
Death stays more bitter than them all; I would not
Touch lips with death.
Yol.
No? I have no such doubt.
Den.
Is it your place to make me friends with death?
Yol.
It is my pity.
Den.
I should find it so
Were I the cushion for a fool’s feet, or
A fool indeed of yours.
Yol.
I called you none.
Den.
I were the bell i’ the worst fool’s cap alive
If I rang right to this wrong breath of yours.
You talk to get me harmed.
Yol.
Put off that fear.
Den.
I will not, truly; you would talk me out,
Be rid of me this whispering way, this fashion
That pulls on death by the ear; I feel your wisdom;
’Tis craft thick-spun, but I shall ravel it.
Yol.
This is your garment that you thrust me in.
Den.
It must not be so late; there will be time;
I was a fool to call it over late.
Give up your keys.
Yol.
What madness bites you now?
Den.
She called you gaoler; give me up the keys;
You have the keys; the outer door is fast;
If this be madness I am friends with it;
Give me the keys.
Yol.
Will you put hands on me?
Den.
I’ll have them out, though God would make you man
To use me forcibly.
Yol.
I have none such;
Threaten me not, or you shall smite yourself.
Den.
I say, the keys.
Yol.
What will you do to me?
Den.
Keep there, you get not out.
Yol.
Are you stark crazed?
Den.
It may look like enough. What chain is that?
Give me the chain.
Yol.
I swear I have them not.
Den.
I do not ask for them. Give me the chain;
Pray you now, do; good truth you are not wise
To use me so; I know you have no keys.
Give me the chain; soft, soft —
Yol.
Here are the keys.
Take them and let me pass.
Den.
I thank you, no;
If I be mad I must do warily,
Or they will trap me. Get you into my chamber;
Now am I twice the sinew of all you
And twice as wise. I say, get in; God’s love!
How you do pull my patience! in sound wits
It were too hard to bear. Make haste, I say.
[Exeunt severally.
Scene III.
A Cabinet.
Enter the Queen-Mother and Tavannes.
Ca.
So, you did see them forth?
Tav.
Madam, I did;
The king doth fare by this more temperately.
Ca.
If he turn white and stagger at his point,
It is too late. The mortal means of danger
Are well abroad; and this sole work o’ the world
Fit to set hands to. How do you feel by this?
Tav.
Why, well; as if my blood were full of wine.
Ca.
I am hot only in the palm of the hands.
Do you not think, sir, some of these dead men,
Being children, dreamed perhaps of this? had fears
About it? somewhat plucked them back, who knows,
From wishing to grow men and ripen up
For such a death to thrust a sickle there?
Tav.
I never found this woman mixed in you.
Ca.
No. — I am certain also that this hour
Goes great with child-birth and with fortunate seed,
Worth care to harvest; sons are born and die,
Yea, and choke timeless in the dead strait womb,
Of whom we know not; each day breeds worse; it is
The general curse of seasons.
Tav.
Well, what help?
Ca.
True. — It hurts little for a man to die,
If he be righteous. Were I a swordsman born,
A man with such red office in my hands
As makes a soldier — it would touch me not
To think what milk mine enemy’s mouth had drunk,
When both were yearlings a span long. My God!
It is too foolish that conceit of blood
Should stick so on the face; I must look red;
Give me the little mirror-steel; now see;
Here is no painting.
Tav.
Yea, but let me go.
Ca.
It is man’s blood that burns so deep and bites
No crying cleans it. If one kill a dog,
The spot sticks on your skirt as water might;
The next rain is a worse thing. Humph! I see;
We have some hot and actual breath in us
That blood lets out; we feed not as they do;
So the soul comes and makes all motion new;
One guesses at it.
Tav.
Will you go mad for this?
Ca.
No. — If one strike me on the mouth or breast,
And I am hurt and bleed to death — is that
Murder? I would not kill them for their blood;
God’s mercy! wherein can their blood serve me?
Let all go through.
Tav.
Madam, I take my leave;
All shall run out ere we two speak again.
Ca.
Hark, I hear shots; as God shall pity me,
I heard a shot. Who dies of that? yea now,
Who lies and moans and makes some inches red?
Tav.
Not for an hour yet; the first dial-rim
Makes the first shot.
Ca.
The noise moves in my head,
Most hotly moves; pray you keep clear of me.
God help my woman’s body for a fool’s!
I must even sit.
Tav.
Be patient with your cause;
Give it all room, then you get heart again;
I know those ways.
Ca.
Too sharp to drink, too sharp,
Sweet Christ of mine; blood is not well to drink,
God put this cup some little off my mouth.
Yea, there it catches in mine eyes like smoke,
The smell of blood, it stings and makes one weep;
So, God be patient till I breathe again.
Tav.
Are you fallen foolish? woman — madam — thou!
Take heart to speak at least.
Ca.
I will take heart.
What is there in it that should bar my breath,
Or make me babble stark across the sense
As I did then? can the flesh merely prate
With no mind in it to fall praying, ha?
Give me some wine. Go out and cheer your men;
Bid them be bold; say, work is worth such pains;
Be quick and dangerous as the fire that rides
Too fast for thunder. Tell them the king, the king
Will love each man, cherish him sweetly, say,
And I will hold him as that brother is
Whom one flesh covered with me. — Will it rain?
Tav.
No; the wide ends of the sky are clear with stars;
It is broad moon-time.
Ca.
I would fain see rain.
Art thou so slow of purpose, thou great God,
The keenest of thy sighted ministers
Can catch no knowledge what we do? for else
Surely the wind would be as a hard fire,
And the sea’s yellow and distempered foam
Displease the happy heaven; wash corn with sand
To waste and mixture; mar the trees of growth;
Choke birds with salt, breach walls with tided brine,
And chase with heavy water the horned brood
Past use of limit; towers and popular streets
Should in the middle green smother and drown,
And havoc die wi
th fulness. — I should be mad,
I talk as one filled through with wine; thou, God,
Whose thunder is confusion of the hills
And with wrath sown abolishes the fields,
I pray thee if thy hand would ruin us,
Make witness of it even this night that is
The last for many cradles, and the grave
Of many reverend seats; even at this turn,
This edge of season, this keen joint of time,
Finish and spare not. If no thunder came
When thou wert full of wrath to the fierce brim,
Next year would spit on worship. — I am faint yet;
See you, I have to chatter these big words
To keep my head straight; each small nerve it hath
Is like a chord pulled straight to play upon
Till the string ache at sound. Sir, bear with me.
Tav.
Keep but soft speech. Nay, pray you let me go;
Open the door; I should be hence in time.
[The
King of Navarre
passes over the stage.
Ca.
Good night, lord marshal. You come late, fair sir,
To bear my daughter commendations.
I doubt she looks for you; I have had pains
To bring her safe and presently your way;
She had some will to watch.
Hen.
I am the more bound to you.
Ca.
Let my praise sleep to-night, unless you do
Speak well of me to her. See, the white stars
Do burn upon the fair blue weather’s waste
Thick as a lulled wind carries the marred leaves;
Yea, see how grey my likenesses are grown,
That grow on my grey years!
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Page 181