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

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

  No child was ever so milk-mouthed, no bird

  That picks out seed from scented and pink palms.

  To say soft words is seasonable; and good

  To think of all men smoothly; else a sin

  May sting you suddenly — as him it stung —

  Hell’s heat burn through that whorish mouth of hers!

  Bouch.

  Madam!

  Qu. El.

  And God that knows I weep!

  Bouch.

  Keeps count

  (The monks’ song says it) of your flitting times,

  Seals all your tears up safely, doth he not?

  Hark, there’s one singing.

  Qu. El.

  But no monk this time.

  Look, in the garden by the red wall’s turn,

  The king’s fool under covert, and steals fruit;

  Pluck such raw pears and spoil so bad a song,

  That breaks my patience; a lewd witch-burden!

  One sings outside: —

  This was written in God’s name;

  The devil kissed me

  Mouth on mouth with little shame

  Under a big tree.

  He fed me full with good meat,

  The best there might be;

  He gave me black wine and sweet

  Red fruit and honey-meal to eat;

  Domine, laudamus te.

  He made straight the lame

  And fat he made me;

  So he gat good game,

  Kisses three by three.

  He was shapen like a carl,

  A swine’s foot had he;

  Like a dog’s his mouth did snarl,

  His hands were foul with loam and marl;

  Domine, laudamus te.

  Qu. El.

  Eh, what lewd words so mutter in his teeth?

  I hear no good ones; bid them see him whipped.

  Outside: —

  A bat came out of heaven

  That had a flat snout;

  A loaf withouten leaven,

  Crumbs thereof fell out;

  The devil thrust up with his thumb,

  Said tho to me,

  Lo you, there shall be left no crumb

  When I and you in heaven come;

  Domine, laudamus te.

  There were many leavès thick

  Grown well over me;

  A big branch of a little stick

  Is this greenè tree;

  He showed me brave things to wear,

  Pleasant things to see;

  A good game had we twain there,

  The leavès weren broad and fair;

  Domine, laudamus te.

  Qu. El.

  Bid the grooms whip him; even a dog like that

  Can be a fret to me, a thorn-prick. Ah,

  Such beasts as feed about us, and we make

  Communion of their breath! I am sick at him.

  Why, my sweet friend, I pray you of your love

  Do me some service.

  Bouch.

  Nay, the fool’s no harm;

  Let be a little; service was your word?

  See now, he creeps by nodding his fool’s head,

  With back and shoulders rounded for the sun;

  Let the poor beast be; ’tis no worse than dogs

  When the rain makes them howl, soaks to the bone

  As he is sodden through the wits of him.

  Now, sweet, sit closer, talk with me; you said

  Service? what service must I do? the king,

  It’s the king has me at his heels, a dog

  For service; the best work one does for love;

  As I do service for my lord the king.

  Qu. El.

  Ay, for you love him; I have learnt you, sir,

  Can say my Bouchard through and turn the leaf.

  Are you his servant, lackey, chattel, purse,

  The sheath where he’s the hilt? you love him; eh?

  Bouch.

  Service and love make lordship stable; well,

  Suppose I love him; there be such about

  As would stoop shoulder and fit knee to bear

  Worse weight than I do, only for pure love —

  Clean love, that washes out so much!

  Qu. El.

  Ah, sir,

  They make you laugh, then?

  Bouch.

  Well, not loud; a brush

  That strikes one’s lips with laughter as a fly

  Touches a fruit and drops clean off, you see.

  Men love so, pay them wages (ah, not gold,

  No gold of course, but credit, name, safe room,

  Broad space to sun the back and cram the sides

  And shake fat elbows and grow longer beards —

  There’s all one wants, now) pay them such, I say —

  Lo, sir, our friend hath never wrought for that,

  That he should take it; love holds otherwhere

  Than by the purfled corners of your sleeve,

  Eats no such food as keeps your pages warm

  Nor wears such raiment.

  Qu. El.

  Ay, my Bouchard, so?

  I’ve measure of you somewhere; why serve me?

  Why sweat and crawl to get me such a rose

  And save my gloves one thorn?

  Bouch.

  Nay, I know not;

  Find some clean reason for a miry foot

  Or tell me why God makes the sun get up

  Pricked out like a tame beast, I’ll answer you

  Why I am pleased to be so serviceable.

  But why our friend’s lip tastes a sweet therein

  Who serves for honesty? this were more hard to say.

  Still the truth stands, he’ll work some three good hours

  Outside your hireling; yea, that’s much for him;

  And all to get such dog’s wage as a rag

  To wrap some naked wound’s unseemliness

  Caught serving you, lest the sight turn your blood

  And swell your sick throat out at him.

  Qu. El.

  No more?

  I doubt you do belie both sides of love.

  Bouch.

  But ask him rather; there’s Jean Becqueval,

  King Louis has him throttled up in steel

  That was a strong knight once, and had broad bones

  To get the mail shut over, not so tight.

  A keen sword, madam, makes blunt work in time,

  For this man struck two blows for you or three

  Some years back, when your courtiers snarled and spat;

  Who might have children beat him on his mouth

  And could not shake about the chin for spite

  To save their plucking at his beard. Poor fool,

  I dare well say he hates you not the least,

  Most like would bite now for you with his teeth,

  Since both hands could not pull the scabbard straight

  Or loose the band o’the visor and not let

  The steel snap on his fingers.

  Qu. El.

  If you say truth,

  I swear by God’s blood I am shamed in it,

  Shamed out of face; but I misdoubt you lie

  Your old hard way, lie perfectly. Be good,

  Say you did lie.

  Bouch.

  I have said short of truth.

  Nay, now you find this wound in him of yours,

  Should you fall weeping? ask our lord so much;

  He’ll swear by God’s face, finger his own beard,

  And twist a hawk’s foot round or hurt its neck,

  And say by God such things are pitiful.

  Come, is your friend less pinched for his good will?

  You know he would not, set things broadly down,

  Sweep this cast up and leave him room to throw,

  Change his soiled coat to be set clean in gold;

  He would just choose to serve you his best way

  Something beyond my warrant. Why, in France

/>   Last March the king’s friend, Guerrat of Sallières,

  — A good knight — has that long mouth like a toad’s,

  And eats a woman like a grape with it —

  (Spits the husk out I mean and strains the core)

  Spake thus to me; “Sir Robert, there’s a man

  Lies flat with rust upon his lips to chew

  Who while your Queen touched Paris with her feet

  Would have plucked out his hairs for cushion-stuff

  To save her shoes a sprinkle of weak rain —

  Burnt out his eyes a-sputter in the head

  If she misliked their colour.”

  Qu. El.

  Not Sallières?

  Bouch.

  It was my question; at which word thrown out

  His head went sideways as a big fish flaps

  And shoves with head and body, showing white

  I’the black oil of sea-water before storm

  (You take such off-shore with sides weltering)

  And the cheeks got quick twinkles of eased flesh

  And the chin laughed; “By Mary’s hand,” he said,

  “I think I would not.”

  Qu. El.

  Ah, the fool he was!

  Is he grown fat? he must be fat by this.

  Bouch.

  I held to him; what name and ways and work,

  Where the man hid; whereat my Guerrat rolls

  And chatters— “By the milk of Pilate’s nurse

  And by the sleeve that wiped king Herod’s beard,

  I hope the place be something worse than hell,

  Or I shall fare the worse next world, by God!”

  Qu. El.

  What noise runs towards us? is the king past Thames

  Think you, by this? — Take this one word of me;

  Albeit I lay no heavy thought on it

  Lest pain unmake me, hold this truth of mine,

  Sir Robert, which your swordsmen and blank wits,

  I doubt, would feel for half one’s life and miss;

  I had sooner fare as doth this Becqueval

  Than as I fare; yea, if a man will weep,

  Let him weep here. God is no good to me,

  Nor any man i’the world; I have no love

  And no smooth hour in those twelve pricks of plague

  That smite my blood each once a day. Nay, go;

  Do me some greeting to my lord. Farewell.

  [Exit Bouchard

  .

  I shall find time to hate you; yea, I do

  Hate him past speech. Let me just cool my head

  And gather in some breath to face the king —

  I am quite stilled.

  Enter King Henry.

  Fair days upon my lord.

  K. Hen.

  How does the queen? — Three — not four provinces

  To shut one’s hand on. — Are you well? — next month

  My face at Paris and his hands in mine

  Touch service; two, three provinces at most;

  I must have more.

  Qu. El.

  I thank you, well enough.

  How doth my Paris? — That means ill to me,

  That beat of his two fingers on the cheek.

  Will Bouchard make no liar, does one know?

  K. Hen.

  Fair news; our Louis to the throat in steel,

  And cannot clear his saddle at a leap,

  But slips and sticks there as he did years back,

  Not in the saddle but across a bed

  His feet in time drew clear of and made room.

  Qu. El.

  Made room for you to slide between and thrust

  Across the pillows with a sideways head

  To warm about the corner where his feet

  Were thrust out late; so God keep heat for it

  To please you always!

  K. Hen.

  Ay, not best at swords,

  Good Louis; I was eased with swinging steel

  In thick fields under lusty months of sun;

  He would play blind, wring back my hand in his,

  Fall in hard thought. But see now; have I not

  A dozen French heads broken through the neck

  Hung at my sleeve here, madam, threes and threes?

  Guy d’Héricourt and Guerrat of Sallières,

  Denis of Gordes, Peter of the March,

  I have their tongues shut with gold coins of mine

  To seal the lips back; Jacques Becqueval

  Shows teeth to nibble; if these fail me quite,

  I’ll say we have played at luck with God and lost

  By some trick’s foil; being no such fools of his

  As chew the lazy purpose with their teeth,

  Eat and wax full and laugh till hair falls out;

  Why, all the world lives without sleeping-whiles,

  God makes and mars and turns not weak one whit,

  But we must find some roost to perch and blink

  And wag thick chins at the world; I hate all men

  That have large faces with dead eyes in them

  And good full fronts of fool.

  Qu. El.

  Am I worth words?

  K. Hen.

  So quick, so quick! are you true wife to me?

  Qu. El.

  I praise God for it, how loyal I have lived

  Your soul shall answer.

  K. Hen.

  What, I see the blood

  That goes about the heart and makes you hot —

  French blood, south blood! I would not tax you far,

  But spare my Louis; he did no such wrong

  As I did when I let you slip my hand

  In a new French glove you had sewn with gold.

  Qu. El.

  This is a courteous holiness of yours

  That smites so in my face; have you not heard

  Of men whose swervèd feet lie delicate

  In common couches, with beds made to them

  Where priests shed no fair water? Nay, this breath

  You chide me with makes treason to your breath

  That was my promise; if I be your wife,

  The unclean witness of my well-doing

  Is your own sin.

  K. Hen.

  This is a fevered will

  That you seem drunk withal.

  Qu. El.

  I bond-broken?

  You lay your taint my way; blush now a little,

  Pay but some blood; do but defend yourself;

  It is a double poison in revolt

  When it deserts the bare rebellion

  To be half honest.

  K. Hen.

  You are not wise.

  Qu. El.

  I would not:

  For wisdom smites awry, when foolishness

  Keeps the clean way.

  K. Hen.

  Have you done yet with me?

  Qu. El.

  I thrust your bags out with round cheeks of gold

  That were my people’s; thickened with men the sides

  Of your sick, lean, and barren enterprise;

  Made capable the hunger of your state

  With subsidies of mine own fruitfulness;

  Enriched the ragged ruin of your plans

  With purple patched into the serge and thread

  Of your low state; you were my pensioner;

  There’s not a taste of England in your breath

  But I did pay for.

  K. Hen.

  Better I had never seen you

  Than wear such words unchallenged. You are my wife;

  I would the name were lost with mine to it.

  I put no weight upon you of the shame

  That is my badge in you; the carriage of it

  Pays for your gold.

  Qu. El.

  Ay, you will tax not me,

  Being made so whole of your allegiance, you,

  Perfect as patience? why, the cause, this cause

  (Be it what you say — but sa
ying it you lie,

  Are simply liar, my lord!) the shame would prick

  A very dog to motion of such blood

  As takes revenge for the shame done, the shame

  I’the body, in the sufferance of a blow —

  But you are patient.

  K. Hen.

  I will not find your sense.

  Qu. El.

  Nay, I think so; when you do understand,

  Praise me a little then. For this time, sir,

  I have no such will to trouble you; and here,

  Even here shall leave-taking atone us twain;

  Therefore farewell. When I am dead, my lord,

  I pray you praise me for my sufferance;

  You see I chide not; nay, I say no word;

  I will put seals like iron on my mouth

  Lest it revolt at me, or any shame

  Push some worse phrase in than “God keep you, sir.”

  [Exit.

  K. Hen.

  I am her fool; no word to get her dumb?

  I am like the tales of Cornish Mark long since,

  To be so baffled. Well, being this way eased,

  I need not see her anger twice i’the eyes;

  Get me a hawk to ride with presently.

  [Exit.

  III. At Woodstock.

  King Henry and Rosamond, seated.

  Rosamond.

  Belle est madame, et bien douce en son dire;

  Dieu lui fit don de pleurer ou de rire

  Plus doucement que femme qui soupire

  Et puis oublie.

  Bonne est madame, et me baise de grace;

  Bien me convient baiser si belle face,

  Bien me convient que si doux corps embrasse

  Et plus n’oublie.

  Blonde est madame, ayant de tristes yeux;

  Entre or et roux Dieu fit ses longs cheveux;

  Bien mal me fait, si l’en aime bien mieux,

  Et moins oublie.

  Blanche est madame et gracieuse à voir;

  Ne sais si porte en corps azur ou noir;

  Que m’a donné sa belle bouche avoir

  Jamais n’oublie.