In mine esteem, as loveless negligence
Nor any love’s lack, but such only cause
As I desire, being just and reasonable,
Which is the final order he should take
For his own surety and honour, who alone
Is my life’s stay for which I only will
Preserve it, and without which in this world
My soul desires not but a sudden death.
Bear therefore to him for testimony of me
How lowly I submit me to his law
In sign of homage this that I take off
Of my head’s ornament, which is the chief
And guide of other members, as to say
How being possessed of that as of a spoil
Which is the principal he needs must have
The remnant subject to him with heart’s consent.
And for that heart, that seeing I have left it him
Long since I have not now in hand to give,
This stone instead I send him, painted black
And sown with tears and bones, a sepulchre
Whereto my heart is likened, being as it
Carved like a tomb or certain receptacle
To harbour his commandments in, and hold
More fast than all his memory and his name
Therein enclosed as in the ring my hair,
To come forth never till the grant of death
Shall let him rear a trophy of my bones,
As is the ring full of them, set therein
For sign he has made full conquest of my heart,
That even the bones must be to him bequeathed
For memory of his victory and my loss
That was so sweet to me: tell him but this,
And say that by the enamelling of black
He shall discern her steadfastness who sends,
And by the tears my fears innumerable
Lest I displease him, and those tears I shed
For his dear absence and for heart’s disdain
That I may not in outward shape be his
As with full strength and heart and spirit I am,
And with good cause; for were my merit more
Than hers of all born ever for men’s love
Found worthiest and most perfect, and as much
As I desire it might be in his eye,
Well might I so rest ever, and shall strive
Still to maintain me in his government
As worthily as I may. Say, I beseech him
That is mine only good, in as good part
To take it at my hand as I at his
With extreme joy received our marriage bond,
That till the marriage of our bodies be
Made publicly shall part not from my breast,
Which keeps it now in sign of all the bliss
I can or hope for or desire on earth:
And that my letter here brake off for dread
Lest this as much should weary him to read
As I took joy to write it; therefore, say,
Here did I set a kiss as on his hand
With such devotion as I pray to God
To give him long and blessed life, and me
That only good of all which I desire
And only may pretend to in the world,
His love and his good favour who doth hold
Alone my life up; and this trust I showed
To you in whom I know the trust he hath
As I shall for his sake whose wife I am,
His humble and obedient lawful wife,
To whom my heart and body are dedicate
And shall in no wise unto death be changed
Nor good nor evil make me go from it.
So tell him, and despatch.
Exit Paris.
What said Lord Mar
Touching the child’s charge to you?
MARY BEATON.
But thus much;
That he would never let it from his hand
Save with assent of the three several states,
And on condition there shall be proclaimed
Some honest lord and worthy such a charge
As captain of the castle of Edinburgh,
Where only may the prince, he says, lie safe
From them that slew his father.
QUEEN.
Ay, so brave?
There speaks a man of trust, found honourable;
I had as lief be dead as see such men
Stand so at point to thwart me: by my life,
I hold it not a straw’s worth in the scale
If I must live so shackled. What, and now,
When my life trembles on the top of fate,
And all my days hang from this edge of time
‘Twixt night and light suspended, whence one hour
May hurl all hopes down breathless to the pit
And cast me broken at the mountain’s foot
Or set me sure and steadfast in the sun,
To be so crossed of cozening honesties,
And honours made of craft, and fraudulent faith,
Would spur a blood more sluggish than my sleep
And prick a drowsier passion. Well, let be;
Our time will come to take all these in hand.
What may doubt deem then I would do with him
That am his mother? Nay, I know their thought;
It is their fear and hatred of my lord
That glares askant on me; and the child’s self,
I think, as little loves me as he need,
Knowing in what love I held his father.
Come, I will yet see, before I take my leave,
If there be such a nature in our blood
As can command and change the spiritual springs
And motions of our thought, advance or check
The pulse of purpose in the soul that moves
Our longings and our loathings to their end
By mere control and force unreasonable
Of motiveless compulsion; if such blind
And sensual chances of the stirring veins
That feed the heart of child or mother may
Divert and dull the mind’s design, or turn
The conscience and the current of the will
From its full course and action. I believe,
Albeit I would not hurt the life I bare
Nor shed its blood, it is not possible
Such love should live between my child and me
Who know what source he came of more than mine,
And how that part of me once mixed therewith
Was sullied thence and shamed in mine own sight,
That loathes to look upon it, yet must see
In flesh and blood the record writ and sealed
As oft as I behold him: and you saw
He would not lie within mine arm, nor kiss,
But like a fox-cub scratched and strove, to be
Free of my hands again.
MARY BEATON.
I see no need
In heaven or earth why you should love him.
QUEEN.
No?
They say such law there is to enforce such love
On either part; I know not: but I think
Love should but flower from seed of love, and this
Was but a tare sown timeless and in hate;
Yet so much am I mother in my mind
That, be it for love or loathing, from my heart,
When I perforce commend him to that care
Which will not yield him naturally to mine,
Fain would I parting know if soon or late
Mine eyes shall turn upon that face again
Which out of me was moulded, and take note,
When each on each looks equal-eyed, and sees
His crown a shadow that makes mine a shade,
What king must this be and what queen shall I.
Scene VIII. Dunbar. A Room in the Castle
Maitland and Sir Jam
es Melville
MELVILLE.
What, have you seen them since we came from horse?
How looks she now?
MAITLAND.
Disquieted and strange;
And he so hot and high of mood, I think
We have no safeguard from him but in her;
And Huntley that at Stirling spake with me
Of this their counsel, and must now suspect
It was by me discovered to the lords,
Will turn perforce his fear of Bothwell’s wrath
Into a sword to strike as straight as he
Even at my life, it may be; which her grace
Shall easilier from fear of them redeem
Than her own fame from evidence of men,
That seeing her prisoner see too if she came
By force or no, and led by heart or hand,
To bonds indeed or freedom.
MELVILLE.
Nay, myself
Was warned of him that rode in charge of me,
The Laird here of Blackadder, how his lord
Was of our lady’s counsel; and but now
As they rode in I heard him swear, and laugh,
Who would soe’er or would not, in their spite,
Yea, though herself she would not with her will,
Yet should the queen perforce now wed with him.
MAITLAND.
The deed has flushed his brain and blood like wine;
He is wroth and merry at once, as a man mad.
There will no good come of it.
MELVILLE.
Surely, sir,
Of such loose crafts there cannot: all this land
Will cry more loud upon her than on him
If she be known consenting.
MAITLAND.
If she be!
How shall not all ears know it on earth that hear?
But two miles out of Edinburgh at noon,
Accompanied of all her guard and us,
She, meeting in mid road at Almond Bridge
The unthought-on Bothwell at his horsetroop’s head,
Who with twelve men lays hand upon her rein,
Yields herself to him for fear our blood be spilt,
Or theirs or ours, for tenderness of heart
Submits her to his violent masterdom,
Forbids our swords, ties up all hands with words,
And doglike follows hither at his hand
For pure surprise and suddenness of fear
That plucks the heart out of resistance; then,
Riding beneath the south wall of the town,
On show of summons to the castle sent
For help of us enforced thus of our foes,
We get but fire of guns charged full of sound
With hay stuffed in for powder; and God knows
Balfour knew naught of this, the governor,
Who was forewarned not first of their design,
How by no means to cross but further it
With forecast of his office; nay, all this
Was undevised and on the sudden wrought
To take her by swift stroke of simple hand;
And so astonied were we all, and so
The castellan, and most of all the queen.
Why, though the world be drunk with faith in lies
Shall God make this too gospel? From this day
Shall she begin her ruin; with rent heart
I see the ways wherethrough her life shall lie,
And to what end; for never henceforth more
Shall she get good or comfort of men’s love,
Nor power nor honour that a queen should have,
Nor hap nor hope renewed in all her days.
She has killed herself to take her kingdom off
And give into strange keeping.
Enter the Queen, Bothwell, and Huntley
BOTHWELL.
Here he stands;
This was the knave that was to baffle me;
He shall die here.
HUNTLEY.
I will not lose the part
My sword should have in him: this hour and hand
Shall cut off craft and danger. Stand, and die.
MAITLAND.
Is it the queen’s will that pursues my life?
Then let it strike, and end.
QUEEN.
I charge you, hold;
I will not foully twice be forced of men
To stand and stain mine eyes with sight of blood
Shed of a friend, and guiltless. Hold, I say.
BOTHWELL.
Stand by, for I will slay him.
QUEEN.
Slay me then,
For I will fling my body on their points
Before your swords shall find him; hark you, sir,
To Huntley.
Whose father died my traitor in my sight,
If one hair perish of my servant’s head,
You that had back your lands and goods but now
Again shall lose them with your forfeit life
For boot of this man’s blood.
BOTHWELL.
Woman, give way.
QUEEN.
Give all your swords way toward me; let me bleed
Ere this my friend that has been true to me:
I swear he shall not.
MAITLAND.
Madam, for God’s love,
Come you not in their peril; I am armed,
If both not run upon me.
BOTHWELL.
Fool, I say,
Give place, or I shall know not what I do;
Make me not mad.
QUEEN.
I cannot fear you yet.
Will you strike now?
BOTHWELL.
I should but do you right.
Why thrust you in between me and this man
Whom your heart knows for traitor, and whose tongue
Crossed and betrayed our counsel to the lords?
Had he his will, we should not stand to-day
Here heart to heart, but you in ward of them,
And I divided from you.
QUEEN.
My sweet lord,
Let not your wrath confound my happiness;
Stain not my fair and fortunate hour with blood
Shed of a good man who shall serve us yet.
It shall more help to have him live our friend
Than fiftyfold slain of our enemies.
BOTHWELL.
Have your will’s way: he cannot cross us now;
I care not if he live.
MAITLAND.
I am bounden to you
For so much grace.
QUEEN.
Vex not his mood again.
To-morrow shall all friends be reconciled;
To-night rest here in surety.
BOTHWELL.
Be it so.
Exeunt.
Scene IX. The same
The Queen, Bothwell, and the Archbishop of St. Andrew’s
QUEEN.
What counsel, father? if their league be made
So soon and strong at Stirling, we had need
Surely by this be fast in Edinburgh;
We have sent thither freely as our friends
Lord Huntley and James Melville, who were here
As in our ward, not prisoners; every day
Here lingering makes our enemies bitterer-tongued
And our strange state more hazardous; myself
More taxed for willing bondage, or my lord
For violence done upon me.
ARCHBISHOP.
In my mind,
There is no mean of policy now but speed
Nor surety but short counsel and stout heart.
The lords at Stirling, while you put off time,
Athol and Mar, and Morton with Argyle,
Are sworn to crown the prince, and of his name
Make to their cause a standard, if you cleave
Still to my lord here, from whose violent
hand
With your own leave they fain would pluck you forth
And keep your honour hurtless; but they see
You will have no deliverance at their hands
From him who, as they say, doth boast himself.
If he may get your child once in his ward,
To warrant him for ever in good time
From all revenging of his father’s death.
Nay, it is bruited of them all about
How you at parting would have given the boy
An apple poisoned, which he put away,
And dogs that ate it after swelled and died.
BOTHWELL.
The devil is in their lips; had I free way,
Fire should seal up and sear them.
ARCHBISHOP.
So they talk;
The very children’s tongues are hot on you,
And in their plays your shadowy action staged
And phantoms raised of your presented deed;
Boys that in Stirling streets had made their game
To act again the slaying of Darnley, so
Were rapt with passion of the pastime feigned
They wellnigh slew the player that took on him
Your part, my lord, as murderer, and came off
Half hanged indeed and breathless; this I hear,
And more much weightier daily from that part
Pointing the same way on you; sure it is,
From France and England messengers desire
To have the prince delivered to their charge
As to be fostered for his surety’s sake
Of one or other, safelier so bestowed
In foreign harbourage of a stranger court
Than at the rough breast of his natural land;
Such offer comes there of Elizabeth
To those unquiet lords, but other aid
They must of her not look for to their part
Who stand against their sovereign. Now, since these
Are dangers evident, and every day
Puts more in them of dangerous, best it were,
I think, to meet them warlike, point to point,
Your hands and powers made one, and multiplied
By mutual force and faith; or you must part
And each lose other, and yet be neither saved,
Or presently with one sole face confront
The many-mouthed new menace of the time,
With divers heads deformed of enmities
That roar and ravin in the night of state
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Page 225