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

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

  To be our makebate and your talebearer;

  I have heard too of your brother, how he says

  I spake with him at Stirling, where I swear

  I came not in his chamber, spake not half

  Of all whereof he has rounded in your ear

  That I made plaint to him concerning you;

  For all my faults are published in your eye,

  And I deny not one, and nought put off;

  What should it boot me to deny my speech?

  But there are they that think the faults they make

  Shall to all time lie still unspoken of,

  Yet will they speak aloud of small and great

  And tax alike all faults of other folk,

  The least fault as the worst, in men like me

  That have not craft to hide or most or least;

  God save you from such friendship: it is thought,

  Through power upon you of such evil tongues,

  Yourself have not your power upon yourself,

  As by your slight still of my proffered love

  I would believe you have not; such a friend

  Rode with you hither - or unfriend as I doubt -

  I like her not - the Lady Reres, your friend;

  I pray God she may serve you, if she be,

  To your own honour; it runs through all men’s mouths

  She was Lord Bothwell’s harlot, who stands marked

  For a lewd liver above all men alive;

  She and her sister both lie side by side

  Under the like report of his rank love -

  Foul concord and consent unsisterlike

  In such communion as beasts shun for shame.

  Nay, for you know it, it lives on common lips,

  Cries from all tongues, you know it; but for my part

  I will love all that love you, though they were

  But for that love’s sake shameful in men’s eyes.

  Why will you wake not with me this one night,

  But so soon leave me, and I sleep so ill?

  QUEEN.

  Nay, though this night I may not watch with you,

  I leave you not till you turn back with me;

  But for the lords’ sake must it not be known

  That if you change not purpose ere that time

  When you are whole we shall be one again;

  Lest when they know it, remembering your loud threat

  To make them find, if ever we agreed,

  What small account they had made of you, and how

  You had counselled me to take not some of them

  To grace again without assent of yours,

  They fall in fear and jealousy, to see

  The scene so broken and the play so changed

  Without their knowledge, that contrariwise

  Was first set up before them.

  DARNLEY.

  Think you then

  They will for that the more esteem of you?

  But I am glad at heart you speak of them,

  And do believe now you desire indeed

  That we should live together in quietness;

  For were it otherwise, to both of us

  Might worse fall than we wot of; but I now

  Will do whatever you will do, and love

  All that you love; and I have trust in you

  To draw them in like manner to my love;

  Whom since I know they aim not at my life

  I will love all alike, and there shall be

  No more dissension of your friends and mine.

  QUEEN.

  It was by fault of you all this fell out

  That I must heal. For this time fare you well;

  When I get rest I will return again.

  Exit with attendants.

  DARNLEY.

  What say you now? she is gentler in mine eyes

  Than was your word of her.

  CRAWFORD.

  Ay, sweet to sight,

  Exceeding gentle. Wherefore, could one tell,

  Should she desire to lead you so in hand

  Just to Craigmillar? whence report came late

  Of no good counsel toward you or good hope,

  Except the hope be good, there to be healed

  Of all life’s ill for ever, once being bathed

  In the cold springs of death: and hence meseems

  More like a prisoner than her wedded lord

  Are you borne off as in her bonds.

  DARNLEY.

  By heaven,

  I think but little less, and fear myself,

  Save for the trust indeed I have in her

  And in her promise only; howsoe’er,

  I will go with her and put me in her hands,

  Though she should cut my throat; and so may God

  Between us both be judge. I have been men’s fool

  That were but tongues and faces of my friends;

  I see by mine own sight now, and will stand

  On no man’s feet but mine. Give me to drink;

  I will sleep now; my heart is healed of fear.

  Scene XIV. The Queen’s Apartment in the same

  The Queen and Paris

  QUEEN.

  Here is the letter for your lord to know

  I bring the man on Monday, as is writ,

  Hence to Craigmillar. Say too this by mouth,

  The Lady Reres can witness, with mine oath,

  I would not let him kiss me. Bid our lord,

  Mine and your lord, enquire of Maitland first

  If our past purpose for Craigmillar hold

  Or if the place be shifted, and send word

  To me that here await his will by you.

  Be of good speed; I say not of good trust,

  Who know you perfect in his trust and mine.

  Farewell.

  PARIS.

  I am gone with all good haste I may,

  And here come back to serve your majesty.

  Hath it no further counsel or command

  To be my message?

  QUEEN.

  Tell him, night and day

  And fear and hope are grown one thing to me

  Save for his sake: and say mine hours and thoughts

  Are as one fire devouring grain by grain

  This pile of tares and drift of crumbling brands

  That shrivels up in the slow breath of time,

  The part of life that keeps me far from him,

  The heap of dusty days that sunder us.

  I would I could burn all at once away

  And our lips meet across the mid red flame

  Thence unconsumed, being made of keener fire

  Than any burns on earth. Say that mine eyes

  Ache with mine heart and thirst with all my veins,

  Requiring him they have not. Say my life

  Is but as sleep, and my sleep very life,

  That dreams upon him. Say I am passing now

  To do that office he would have me do,

  Which almost is a traitor’s; say, his love

  Makes me so far dissemble, that myself

  Have horror at it; bid him keep in mind

  How were it not to obey him I had rather

  Be dead before I did it; let him not

  Have ill opinion of me for this cause,

  Seeing he is alone the occasion of it himself,

  Since for mine own particular revenge

  I would not do it to him that I most hate;

  My heart bleeds at it. Say, he will not come

  But on condition I shall cleave to him

  Hereafter, and on that word given of mine

  Will go where I would have him go: alas,

  I never have deceived yet any man,

  But I remit me to my master’s will

  In all things wholly; bid him send me word

  What I shall do, and come what may thereof

  I shall obey him; if some new subtler way

  By medicine may be thought on when I bring

&nbs
p; The man here to Craigmillar, that as yet

  May not this long time of himself go forth

  Out of the house, let him advise himself

  How to put this in hand: for all I find,

  This man I here endure to play upon

  Lives now in great suspicion; yet my word

  Hath credit with him, but not far enough

  For him to show me anything; but yet

  I shall draw forth of him what thing I will

  If my lord bid me be more plain with him;

  But I will never take delight to wrong

  The trust of any that puts trust in me;

  Yet may my lord command me in all things.

  And though by checks and hints of that I feared

  This man sometimes even touch me to the quick

  With words dropt of mine honour and my power

  On mine own self, whereby I surely know

  That he suspects him of the thing we wot

  And of his life, yet as to that last fear

  I need but say some three good words to him

  And he rejoices, and is out of doubt.

  He was seen never as gay of mood as now

  When I make show of grace and gentle heart,

  And puts me in remembrance of all things

  That may assure my faith he loves me well.

  Let not my love suspect me for his sake,

  Who take such great joy of his love-making

  That I come never where he is but straight

  I take the sickness of my sore side here,

  I am vexed so with it; wearied might he be,

  This poisonous man that gives me all this pain

  When I would speak of things far sweeter; yet

  He is marred not overmuch of form or face

  Though he have borne much, and his venomed breath

  Hath almost slain me though I sit far off.

  He would have had me watch with him, but I

  Put off the night; he says he sleeps not sound;

  He never spake more humbly nor more well;

  And if I had not proven his heart of wax

  And were not mine cut of a diamond

  Whereinto no shot ever can make breach

  But that which flies forth of mine own love’s hand,

  I had almost had pity of him; but say

  I bid the captain of my fortressed heart

  Fear not; the place shall hold unto the death.

  And bid my love in recompense thereof

  Let not his own be won by that false kind

  That will no less strive with him for the same.

  I think the twain were trained up in one school,

  For he hath ever tear in eye, and makes

  Most piteous moan to arouse men’s pity, yea,

  Humbly salutes them all, even to the least,

  To make their hearts soft toward him; and desires

  That with mine own hands I would give him meat;

  But let my lord, where he is, give no more trust

  Than I shall here. Tell him all this; and say

  I am in the doing here of a work I hate

  Past measure; and should make him fain to laugh

  To see me lie so well, or at the least

  So well dissemble, and tell him truth ‘twixt hands.

  Say, by the flatteries I perforce must make

  And prayers to him to assure himself of me,

  And by complaint made of the men designed,

  I have drawn out of him all we list to know,

  Yet never touched one word of that your lord

  Showed me, but only wrought by wiles; and say

  With two false kinds we are coupled, I and he,

  My love; the devil dissever us, and God

  Knit us together for the faithfullest pair

  That ever he made one; this is my faith,

  I will die in it. Excuse me to my lord

  That I writ ill last night, being ill at ease,

  And when the rest were sleeping was most glad

  To write unto him, who might no more, nor could

  Sleep as they did and as I would desire,

  Even in my dear love’s arms; whom I pray God

  Keep from all evil and send him all repose.

  And being so long my letter hindered me

  To write what tidings of myself I would,

  Who had wrought before for two hours of the day

  Upon this bracelet I would send to him

  Though it be evil made for fault of time,

  I have had so little, and I can get no lock,

  Though that mine hands might end it yestereve

  I would not see the man; but this mean time

  I think to make one fairer; let him not

  Bring it in sight of any that was here,

  For all would know it, seeing it was wrought for haste

  In sight of them; yet might it bring some harm

  And may be seen if he should chance be hurt;

  Let him send word if he will have it, and say

  If he will have more gold by you, and when

  I shall return, and how far I may speak;

  For this man waxes mad to hear of him

  Or of my brother; and when I visit him

  His friends come all to be my convoy, say,

  And he desires me come the morn betimes

  And see him rise. This letter that I send,

  Bid my lord burn it, being so dangerous,

  With nought in it well said, - for all my mind

  Was on this craft I loath to think upon -

  And if it find his hand in Edinburgh,

  Let him soon send me word, and that I doubt

  Be not offended, since to doubts of him

  I give not o’er-great credit; but say this,

  That seeing to obey him, who is my dear heart’s love,

  I spare nor honour, conscience, hazard, state,

  Nor greatness whatsoever, I beseech him

  But that he take it in good part, and not

  As his false brother-in-law interprets, whom

  I pray him give not ear to nor believe

  Against the faithfullest lover he ever had

  Or ever shall have; nor cast eye on her

  Whose feigned tears should not be esteemed so much

  Nor prized so as the true and faithful toils

  Which I sustain but to deserve her place:

  Whereto that I despite all bonds may climb,

  Against my nature I betray them here

  That may prevent me from it; God forgive me,

  And God give him, my only love, the hap

  And welfare which his humble and faithful love

  Desires of him; who hopes to be to him

  Ere long a thing new-named for recompense

  Of all her irksome travails. Tell him this;

  Say I could never stint of hand or tongue

  To send love to him, and that I kiss his hands,

  Ending; and let him think upon his love

  And write to her, and that oft; and read twice through

  Mine evil-written letter, and keep in mind

  All several sayings writ of the man therein.

  Say for delight I have to send to him

  I run twice over all the words I send,

  And that each word may fasten in his ear

  As in his eye, and you may witness me

  That hand and tongue and heart were one to send,

  Put all my message in your lips again

  That here was written. Say - I know not what;

  I can say nought but with my silent hands,

  Speak with the lips of deeds I do for him.

  PARIS.

  Shall I say nothing of Lord Darnley more?

  QUEEN.

  Say, when I did but speak of Maitland once,

  His caitiff flesh quaked in each joint of him,

  Each limb and bone shivered; even to the feet

  He shook, and his shrunk eye
s were stark with fright,

  That like a live thing shuddered in his hair

  And raised it ruffling from the roots for dread.

  Let him mark that: though coward the man be, and fool,

  He has wit and heart enough to know the worst

  Of his wrong-doing, and to what manner of man,

  Being fool, he did it, and discerning him

  Think whether his cause of dread be small or no

  For less or more of peril. So to horse,

  And lose no word sent of my heart to him.

  Scene XV. Kirk of Field

  Enter Bothwell

  BOTHWELL.

  This is the time and here the point of earth

  That is to try what fate will make of me.

  I hold here in my hand my hand’s desire,

  The fruit my life has climbed for; day on day

  Have I strid over, stretching toward this prize

  With all my thews and spirits. I must be glad,

  If I could think; yet even my cause of joy

  Doth somewhat shake me, that my sense and soul

  Seem in their springs confused, even as two streams

  Violently mingling: what is here to do

  Is less now than the least I yet have done,

  Being but the putting once of the mere hand

  To the thing done already in device,

  Wrought many times out in the working soul.

  Yet my heart revels not, nor feel I now

  The blood again leap in me for delight

  That in the thought grew riotous and beat high

  With foretaste of possession unpossessed.

  Is it that in all alike fruition slacks

  The shrunk imagination? in all deeds

  The doing undoes the spirit to do, the joy

  Sickens, the lust is swallowed as of sand?

  Why, yet the stream should run of my desire

  Unshrunken, and no deserts drink it up,

  Being unfulfilled; no satiate sluggishness

  Gape with dry lips at the edge of the dry cup

  For the poor lees of longing. I am here

  Not royal yet, nor redder in the hand

  Than war has dyed me fighting; the thing done

  Is but for me done, since I hold it so,

  Not yet for him that in the doing must bleed;

  I that stand up to do it, and in my mind

  Behold across it mightier days for deeds,

  Should not be way-sick yet nor travel-tired

  Before I drink fulfilment as a wine;

  And here must it restore me.

  Enter Paris

  Ha! so soon?

  What news of her?

  PARIS.

  The queen commends to you