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

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

  Strained hard upon the clasp, would feel the hilt

  Bruise my side blue and work the stamp therein

  Deep as blood hides i’the flesh. I love pain well to feel;

  As to wring in one’s fingers — the least pain;

  It kills the hard impatience of the soul,

  Cools heat of head, makes bearable all shame

  That finds a work to do; yea, very sense

  Tastes it for comfort, gets assured with it,

  Being strong to smite the flesh, and wear pain well.

  She must hate pain, that woman; it should jar

  Her thin soft sense through, tear it up like silk;

  What, if worms eat me that sweet flesh in time?

  Arthur

  (outside).

  Motu mentis quasi ventis facit maria levari;

  Ex avenâ flatu plenâ facit dulcem sonum dari;

  Tument colles quasi folles quia jussit exsufflari,

  Et quœ deplet manu replet labra calicis amari.

  Qu. El.

  Ay, bitter; for it bites and burns one through

  As the sharp sting of wine curdles the mouth.

  He would not wed her if I died? I know —

  A laugh with all his teeth in it, the beard

  So twisted from the underlip about —

  Eh, said he that he would not marry her?

  Bouch.

  Nay, but who deemed else? no man certainly.

  When the weak lust falls dead and eyeless flesh

  Is as a beast asleep and sick of meat,

  What marvel if no spirit there holds out?

  No appetite, that like the unchilded sea

  (In whose unprofitable and various womb

  Fair ships lie sidelong with a fisher’s buoy

  Miles down in water) hungers for such orts

  As riot spares lean want, is yet so wide,

  So vast of ravin or so blind in scope,

  As can abide the chewed and perished meats

  That relish died upon. Fill famine to the lips,

  The word of bread shall turn his throat awry;

  So doth the sense of love all love put out,

  And kiss it from that very place o’the soul

  Mere wish made sweet indeed.

  Qu. El.

  I am sorry for you;

  This foolish poison in your tongue forgets

  All better things to say.

  Bouch.

  It is dull truth;

  This gift found in me should much profit you.

  Qu. El.

  I care not for you; I could wish you hanged

  But for some love that sticks here in my head,

  Some stupid trick caught up — like play with straws,

  Tune-burden twisted over in sick ears

  That keeps up time with fever; so habit fools me

  To use you like a friend.

  Bouch.

  It is a piteous thing

  When honesty grown grey has hairs plucked out

  By such unreverent fingers. Come, let be;

  I marvel what lewd matter jars your talk

  So much past tune.

  Qu. El.

  ’Tis better talk than do

  Where doing means actual harm. Perchance this thing

  Shall trap our souls indeed, — eh?

  Bouch.

  Doubt me not;

  I think so truly. Prithee let us in,

  Wash hands and weep.

  Qu. El.

  You have marred my will to prayer.

  God is right gracious, maybe he shall help,

  As we do honourably. I will not go.

  Arthur

  (outside).

  Multo fletu non expletu facit teneras pupillas;

  Dente tangi, manu frangi jubet nitidas mamillas;

  Quum amœnœ parum genœ nudas exhibent maxillas,

  Fiet gravis odor suavis si quis osculabit illas.

  Qu. El.

  Who made that hymn?

  Bouch.

  Aloys of Blois.

  Qu. El.

  Ah priest!

  You should be priest, my Bouchard, scalp and mouth,

  You have such monk’s ways. If she be foul to God

  And her sweet breath ill savour in his lip,

  Then shall her blood-spilling be sacrifice

  And cleanse us in the blow. I do thank God,

  I praise the wording of his prayer, will make

  Fast and sweet words and thereto thanksgiving,

  Be married to his love, my purpose making

  Such even wing and way with his.

  Bouch.

  Yea, first

  Show me the perfect fashion of her death.

  Qu. El.

  What fashion? feel this flasket next my waist,

  Full to the wicked lips, crammed up and full

  With drugs and scents that touch you in the mouth

  And burn you all up, face and eyes at once —

  They say so; they may lie, who knows? but kill

  The thing does really; do you kiss me now?

  Bouch.

  Some Frenchman gave my queen the thing to keep?

  Qu. El.

  I wot well England would not give a queen

  Six grains of salt she paid in salt of tears.

  France makes good blood, made Becqueval and me;

  I bade him get me for love’s sake — years gone —

  Such mortal matter. Ah, poor Becqueval,

  A good time had we in that pleasance-walk;

  I with few dames about the white pear-trees —

  Spring was it? yea, for green sprang thick as flame

  And the birds bit the blossom and sang hard —

  Now sat and tore up flowers to waste, wet strips

  Of hyacinth, rain-sodden bells — then stood

  To make them braid my running hair well back,

  Pluck out the broken plait of March-lilies,

  Lest one should mutter— “Ha, the queen comes late,

  Her hair unwoven and cheeks red as though

  Fingers and lips had kissed and fondled them —

  Ay, pity of her!” so for that — what words

  I choke with saying!

  Bouch.

  Weak in words indeed;

  See how I shut them back upon the mouth.

  The king comes here to chapel; let us hence.

  Qu. El.

  I am very ready. Nay, this turn it is;

  I am so free and pleasant of my mood,

  I can scarce go for simple joyousness.

  [Exeunt.

  Arthur (outside).

  Pater, e me mendas deme, fac ut cingar prece suavi;

  Pater, e me vinum preme, fac ut purgar fœce gravi;

  Tu me bonis imple donis ut implentur melle favi,

  Tu me rege tuâ lege, quia mundum non amavi.

  V. At Woodstock.

  Rosamond.

  Late summer now, but in the fair blue spring

  How shall God bear me? Once (men say) Lord Christ

  Walked between rivers in his rose-garden

  With some old saint who had a wife by him

  To feed with apple-pulp and honeycomb,

  A wife like Mary in king David’s time

  Long after — but a snake so stung his foot

  He came back never, being lame at heel.

  A story some priest wrote out all in gold,

  Painting the leaves green, for a king to read;

  But the king burnt it; whom God therefore took

  And sold him to some Turk, with eyes thrust out.

  Here in my garden, now his feet are healed

  From those twin stains where bit the hanging-nails,

  He would not come to let me kiss them whole,

  Wash them with oil and wet fruits bruised to juice,

  Rare waters stained and scented through with rose —

  Though my hair be as long as Magdalen’s,

  As yellow, maybe. Mine eyes and
eyelids ache,

  Too thick to see past, weeping swells them blue;

  And the veins narrow visibly and waste

  Where next the elbow neither hand could span;

  The flesh that wore glad colour is gone grey,

  And soon the hair will; yea, not milk but blood

  Fills my breast through, not good for any child

  To lay sweet lips to; I am as a gold cup

  With beaten edges and dry mouths of dust,

  That tears weep into, and that cunning man

  By whose wit I was fashioned lets them run

  And lets men break me. If I were well dead,

  Then were the tears all spilled over the ground

  And I made empty; also I pray God

  To get me broken quickly; else, who knows,

  If I live long till these years too seem grey

  As a flower ruined, then ere sleep at night

  I shall be grown too stark and thin to pray,

  Nor will God care to set me praying then.

  Maids will keep round me, girls with smooth warm hair

  When mine is hard, no silk in it to feel, —

  Tall girls to dress me, laughing underbreath,

  Too low for gold to tighten at the waist.

  Eh, the hinge sharpens at the grate across?

  Five minutes now to get the green walk through

  And turn — the chestnut leaves will take his hair

  If he turn quick; or I shall hear some bud

  Fall, or some pebble’s clink along the fence

  Or stone his heel grinds, or torn lime-blossom

  Flung at me from behind; not poppies now

  Nor marigolds, but rose and lime-flower.

  Enter Queen Eleanor.

  Qu. El.

  (To Bouchard within.)

  Outside — outside — I bade you keep outside;

  Look to her people; tell me not of shame;

  Look to her women.

  Ros.

  Ah God! shall this be so?

  Qu. El.

  I’ll have no man at hand to help her through;

  Not till the king be come; tush, tell not me,

  No treaties — talk of promises, you talk!

  I will not strike her; look to them; Lord God!

  I bade you have a heed; there, go now; there! —

  Here, golden lady, look me in the face;

  Give me both hands, that I may read you through,

  See how the blood runs, how the eyes take light,

  How the mouth sets when one is beautiful.

  Ah sweet, and shall not men praise God for you?

  Ros.

  I shall die now. Madam, you are the queen.

  Qu. El.

  Does fear so speak?

  Ros.

  Not so; for pain with me

  Is a worn garment or that common food

  That sleep comes after best; what wrath will do

  I make no reckoning with.

  Qu. El.

  What love hath done

  I keep the count of; did he not hold this way?

  Did you not set both hands behind his head,

  And curl your body like a snake’s? not set

  Each kiss between the hair of lip and chin,

  Cover your face upon his knees, draw down

  His hands on you, shut either eye to kiss?

  Then it was “Love, a gold band either side,

  A gold ring to pull close each knot of hair!”

  “Nay, not so; kiss me rather like a bird

  That lets his bill cut half the red core through

  And rend and bite for pleasure — eh! I felt

  What pinched my lips up after;” — was it not?

  Did it not sting i’the blood, pluck at the breath

  If a bird caught his song up in the leaves?

  Eh! this was sweet too, that you called the king

  Some girl’s name with no royal note in it

  To spoil the chatter — some name like a kiss

  The lips might loose and hesitate upon?

  He would weave up this yellow skein of yours

  To knot and ravel, though his hands might pluck

  Some plait a little overmuch; your throat,

  Pure pearl, too fair to swell or strain with sobs,

  One would not have a rough thing rasp it round,

  Not steel to touch it, only soft warm silk.

  Will you not sing now, loose your hair well out

  For me to hold the gracious weft? Alas,

  So white you grow, love; the head drops indeed,

  A moan comes out of that kissed mouth of yours!

  You harlot, are you sick to look at me?

  Though my heel bruise you in the gold snake’s head

  I choke to touch you.

  Ros.

  I shall die without.

  But give me time to speak; wherefore am I

  That am made soft in this my body’s strength

  And in my soul smooth and affectionate

  So taken in your loathing? you do not right

  To hate me that am harmless; see my face,

  You will not smite me afterwards; this sin

  Was not begot of wilfulness in me

  To be your pain and a shame burning you;

  Yea verily, no evil will or wit

  Made me your traitor; there came not in my mind

  One thought to gall you past good patience; yea,

  If you could see the pained poor heart in me

  You would find nothing hateful toward you

  In all the soft red record its blood makes.

  Qu. El.

  Thou art more fool than thief; I have not seen

  A beaten beast so humble of its mouth,

  So shaming me as you; I am ashamed

  That such a thing can see me in the eyes.

  You do not think that I shall let you go

  Being well caught? Ah harlot, have you made

  Thief’s japes at me, lewd guesses on my wrath,

  Spat towards me? and now God gives me you

  I shall play soft and touch you with my gloves,

  Nay, make my lips two kissing friends of yours

  Because mere love and a sweet fault i’the flesh

  Put you to shame? Look, you shall die for that,

  Because you sinned not out of hate to me

  That have and hate you. Do not shake at it,

  I will not strike you yet; what hands are mine

  To take such hangman’s matter to their work

  And be clean after? but a charm I have

  Quick to undo God’s cunning weft of flesh

  And mix with deadly waters the glad blood

  That hath so pure a sense and subtleness.

  This is a gracious death made out for you

  And praiseworthy; you shall die no base way,

  Seeing what king’s lips have fastened in your neck.

  Choose me this edge to try your flesh upon

  That feels so precious — like a holy thing

  Kissed by some great saint’s mouth, laid afterwards

  With taper-flame in middle altar-work,

  All over soft as your own lips that fed

  Between the king’s eyes —

  Ros.

  Madam, be merciful,

  You hurt me, pinching in my throat so hard.

  Alas, ah God, will not one speak for me?

  Qu. El.

  Yea, then choose this.

  Ros.

  I will not choose; God help!

  I will not choose; I have no eyes to choose;

  I will be blind and save the sight of choice.

  So shall my death, not looking on itself,

  Fall like a chance.

  Qu. El.

  Put me not past mine oath;

  I am sworn deep to lay no stroke on you.

  Ros.

  I will not drink; so shall I make defeat

  On death’s own bitter will. Do not look ha
rd;

  I know you are more sweet at heart than so.

  Make me the servant of your meanest house,

  And let your girls smite me some thrice a day,

  I will bear that; yea, I will serve and be

  Stricken for wage and bruised; give me two days

  A poor man puts away for idleness,

  Lest my soul ache with you — nay, but, sweet God,

  Is there no thing will say a word for me,

  A little sad word said inside her ears

  To make them burn for piteous shame? you see

  How I weep, yea, fear wrings my body round;

  You know not hardly how afraid I am,

  But my throat sickens with pure fear, my blood

  Falls marred in me; and God should love you so

  Being found his friend and made compassionate —

  Qu. El.

  I have a mind to pluck thee with my hands,

  Tear thy hair backward, tread on thee. By God,

  I thought no sin so sick and lame a fool

  As this lust is.

  Ros.

  But I will drink indeed,

  I will not yet; give me the sword to see

  How that must hurt.

  Qu. El.

  Yea, this way will you see?

  Ros.

  I cannot hold it by the edge; it is

  Too keen to touch the sides thereof with sight.

  Yea then, your drink.

  Qu. El.

  To spill here in the ground?

  It were good game to get white iron out

  As did God’s priest with a king’s harlot once,

  Burn up your hair and brand between your eyes

  That I might have you wear me so in red.

  Besides to-night the king will look for you,

  “Eh, Rosamond? she hides then closer yet,

  Maybe for fear of passengers that slip

  Between those waters; I shall have her now,

  Ha love, have I said right?” would he kiss you,

  Spoilt face and all? — You will die simply then?

  You do the wiselier.

  Ros.

  God be pitiful!

  No man in this sharp world to speak for me

  Of all that go and talk — why now they laugh,

  Chatter of me, base people, say foul things —

  Ah God, sweet Lord, that death should be so hard.