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

Page 227

by Algernon Charles Swinburne


  The Queen and Bothwell; Mary Beaton and Arthur Erskine in attendance

  QUEEN.

  Are you yet wroth?

  BOTHWELL.

  Are you yet wise? to know

  If I be wroth should less import than this

  Which I would fain find of you.

  QUEEN.

  By my life,

  I think I am but wise enough to know

  That witless I was ever.

  BOTHWELL.

  Ay, but most,

  You mean, to wed me, that am graceless more

  Than witless you that wedded, in men’s eyes

  Who justliest judge of either; yet, by God,

  Had I not grace enough to match with you,

  I must have less than in their minds I have

  And tongues of them that curse me; but what grief

  Wrings now your heart or whets your tongue, that strikes

  When the heart stirs not?

  QUEEN.

  Nay, no grief it is

  To be cut off from all men’s company,

  Watched like a thief lest he break ward by night,

  My chamber door set round with men-at-arms,

  My steps and looks espied on, hands and feet

  Fettered as ‘twere with glances of strange eyes

  That guard me lest I stray; my ways, my words,

  My very sleep their subject.

  BOTHWELL.

  You were wont

  To walk more free; I wot you have seen fair days

  When you lived large i’ the sun, and had sweet tongues

  To sing with yours, and haply lips and eyes

  To make song sweeter than the lute may; now

  ’Tis hard that you sit here my woeful wife,

  Who use you thus despitefully, that yet

  Was never queen so mated with a groom

  And so mishandled; have you said so?

  QUEEN.

  I?

  BOTHWELL.

  Who hath put these words else in men’s mouths, that prate

  How you lie fast in prison? I did know

  A woman’s tongue keen as her faith was light,

  But faith so like the wind spake never yet

  With tongue so like a sword’s point.

  QUEEN.

  No, my lord?

  ’Tis well that I should hear so first of you

  Who best may know the truth of your worst word.

  BOTHWELL.

  Is it no truth that men so speak, and you,

  By speech or silence or by change of face,

  By piteous eyes or angry, give them cause

  To babble of your bonds? What grace you show

  Toward others is as doubt and hate of me

  In these our enemies’ sight, who see it and swear

  You are kept in ward here of my will, and made,

  Out of no trust or love but force and fear,

  Thrall to my hand. Why, being but two days wed,

  Must there be cause between us of dispute

  For such a thing as this man, in whose name

  I am crossed and slighted of your wanton will?

  QUEEN.

  If he be worth no more than you conceive,

  What grace I do him can hurt you?

  BOTHWELL.

  I conceive!

  Why, what worth is he with you, that I should

  Conceive the least thought of him? Were I hurt,

  Assure yourself it would be to his death;

  Lay that much to your heart.

  QUEEN.

  My heart is killed.

  I have not where to lay it.

  BOTHWELL.

  Pray you, no tears;

  I have seen you weep when dead men were alive

  That for your eye-drops wept their hearts’ blood out;

  So will not I. You have done me foolish wrong

  And haply cast your fame for food to hounds

  Whose teeth will strip it hour by hour more bare

  Whereon they have gnawed before.

  QUEEN.

  What have I done?

  Speak.

  BOTHWELL.

  Nay, I will, because you know not: hark,

  You are even too simple and harmless; being man’s wife,

  Not now the first time, you should buy more wit

  Though with less innocence; you have given a gift,

  Out of your maiden singleness of soul

  And eye most witless of misconstruing eyes,

  Where you should not: this is strange truth to you,

  But truth, God help us! that man’s horse who was

  Your husband, and whose chattels, place, and name

  Lie in my hold I think now lawfully

  Whence none is like to wring them, have you given

  Out of my hand to one of whom fame saith

  That by the witness of a northland witch

  He when I die must wed you, and my life

  Shall last not half a year; for in your bed

  Must lie two husbands after me, and you

  Shall in your fifth lord’s lifetime die by fire.

  Now, being but third and least in worth of these,

  I would not have you die so red a death,

  But keep you from all fresh or fiercer heat

  Than of my lips and arms; for which things’ sake

  I am not blithe, so please you, to behold

  How straight this lay lord abbot of Arbroath

  Sits in your husband’s saddle. Pardon me

  That with my jealous knowledge I confound

  Your virginal sweet ignorance of men’s minds,

  Ill thoughts and tongues unmannerly, that strike

  At the pure heart which dreams not on such harm;

  It is my love and care of your life’s peace

  Makes me thus venturous to wage words with you,

  And put such troublous things in your fair mind,

  Whereof God wot you knew not: and to end,

  Take this much of me; live what life you may

  Or die what death, while I have part in you,

  None shall have part with me; nor touch nor word

  Nor eye nor hand nor writing nor one thought

  The lightest that may hang upon a look

  Shall man get of you that I know not of

  And answer not upon him. Be you sure

  I am not of such fool’s mould cast in flesh

  As royal-blooded husbands; being no king

  Nor kin of kings, but one that keep unarmed

  My head but with my hand, and have no wit

  To twitch you strings and match you rhyme for rhyme

  And turn and twitter on a tripping tongue,

  But so much wit to make my word and sword

  Keep time and rhyme together, say and slay.

  Set this down in such record as you list,

  But keep it surer than you keep your mind

  If that be changing: for by heaven and hell

  I swear to keep the word I give you fast

  As faith can hold it, that who thwarts me here

  Or comes across my will’s way in my wife’s,

  Dies as a dog dies, doomless. Now, your pleasure;

  I prate no more.

  QUEEN.

  Shall I be handled thus?

  BOTHWELL.

  You have too much been handled otherwise;

  Now will I keep you from men’s hands in mine,

  Or lack the use of these.

  QUEEN.

  What, to strike me?

  You shall not need; give me a knife to strike

  That I may let my life out in his eye,

  Or I will drown myself.

  BOTHWELL.

  Why, choose again;

  I cross you not.

  QUEEN.

  Give me a knife, I say.

  ARTHUR ERSKINE.

  Make not our hearts bleed, madam, as they burn

  To hear what we hear silent.

  BOTHWELL.r />
  Comfort her;

  You were her chamber-knight on David’s day.

  ARTHUR ERSKINE.

  My lord, the reverence that the queen’s sight bears

  And awe toward her make me thus slow to set

  My hand to do what work my heart bids; else

  I would not doubt to stand before your grace

  And make such answer as her servant may.

  QUEEN.

  Forbear him, Arthur; nay, and me; ’tis I

  On whom all strokes first fall and sorest smite,

  Who most of all am shieldless, without stay,

  And look for no man’s comfort. Pray you, sir,

  If it be in your will that I cast off

  This heavy life to lighten your life’s load

  That now with mine is laden, let me die

  More queenlike than this dog’s death you denounce

  Against the man that falls into your hate:

  Though not for love, yet shame, because I was

  A queen that loved you: else you should not seem

  So royal in her sight whose eyes you serve,

  Nor she when I am dead with such high heart

  Behold you, nor with such glad lips commend

  As conqueror of me slain for her love’s sake

  And servant of her living in your love.

  Let me die therefore queenlike, and your sword

  Strike where your tongue hath struck; though not so deep,

  It shall suffice to cleave my heart and end.

  BOTHWELL.

  Hear you, my queen; if we twain be one flesh,

  I will not have this daintier part of it

  Turn any timeless hand against itself

  To hurt me, nor this fire which is your tongue

  Shoot any flame on me; no fuel am I

  To burn and feed you; not a spark you shed

  Shall kindle me to ruin, but with my foot

  Rather will I tread out the light that was

  A firebrand for the death of many a man

  To light the pile whereon they burnt alive.

  What, have I taken it in my hand to scorch

  And not to light me? or hath it set fire

  To so few lives already that who bears

  Needs not to watch it warily and wake

  When the night falls about him? Nay, the man

  Were twice the fool that these your dead men were,

  Who seeing as I have seen and in his hand

  Holding the fire I carry through the dark

  To be the beacon of my travelling days

  And shine upon them ended, should not walk

  With feet and eyes both heedful at what hour

  By what light’s leading on what ground he goes,

  And toward what end: be therefore you content

  To keep your flame’s heat for your enemies’ bale,

  And for your friend that large and liberal light

  That gave itself too freely, shot too far,

  Till it was closed as in a lantern up

  To make my path plain to me; which once lost,

  The light goes out for ever.

  QUEEN.

  Yea, I know;

  My life can be but light now to your life,

  And of no service else; or if none there,

  Even as you say, must needs be quenched; and would

  The wind that now beats on it and the sea

  Had quenched it ere your breath, and I gone out

  With no man’s blood behind me.

  BOTHWELL.

  Come, be wise;

  Our sun is not yet sunken.

  QUEEN.

  No, not yet;

  The sky must even wax redder than it is

  When that shall sink; darkness and smoke of hell,

  Clouds that rain blood, and blast of winds that wreck,

  Shall be about it setting.

  BOTHWELL.

  What, your heart

  Fails you now first that shrank not when a man’s

  Might well at need have failed him?

  QUEEN.

  Ay, and no;

  It is the heart that fired me fails my heart,

  And as that bows beneath it so doth mine

  Bend, and will break so surely.

  BOTHWELL.

  Nay, not mine;

  There is not weight yet on our adverse part,

  Fear not, to bend it.

  QUEEN.

  Yet it fails me now.

  I have leant too much my whole life’s weight on it

  With all my soul’s strength, and beneath the fraught

  I hear it split and sunder. Let me rest;

  I would fain sleep a space now. Who goes there?

  MARY BEATON.

  A suitor to behold your majesty.

  QUEEN.

  I will not see him. Who should make suit to me?

  Who moves yet in this world so miserable

  That I can comfort? or what hand so weak

  It should be now my suppliant, or uplift

  In prayer for help’s sake to lay hold on mine?

  What am I to give aid or alms, who have

  Nor alms nor aid at hand of them to whom

  I gave not some but all part of myself?

  I will not see him.

  MARY BEATON.

  It is a woman.

  QUEEN.

  Ay?

  But yet I think no queen; and cannot be

  But therefore happier and more strong than I.

  Yet I will see what woman’s face for grief

  Comes to seek help at mine; if she be mad,

  Me may she teach to lose my wits and woes

  And live more enviable than ye that yet

  Have wit to know me wretched.

  Enter Jane Gordon

  Who is this?

  Are you my suitor?

  JANE GORDON.

  I am she that was

  Countess of Bothwell; now my name again

  Is that my father gave me.

  QUEEN.

  Ay, no more;

  You are daughter yet and sister to great earls,

  And bear that honour blameless; be it enough;

  And tell me wherefore by that name you come

  And with what suit before me.

  JANE GORDON.

  Even but this,

  To look once on you and to bid farewell

  Ere I fare forth from sight.

  QUEEN.

  Farewell; and yet

  I know not who should in this world fare well.

  Is the word said?

  JANE GORDON.

  A little leave at last

  I pray you give me: that I seek it not

  For love or envy toward my sometime lord

  Or heart toward you disloyal now my queen,

  Let me not plead uncredited. I came

  Surely with no good hope to no glad end,

  But with no thought so vile of will as this,

  To thrust between your hearts the care of me,

  Claim right or challenge pity, melt or fret

  Your eyes with forced compassion: I did think

  To have kissed your hand and something said for sign

  I had come not of weak heart or evil will,

  But in good faith, to see how strong in love

  They stand whose joy makes joyless all my life,

  Whose loving leaves it loveless, and their wealth

  Feeds full upon my famine. Be not wroth;

  I speak not to rebuke you of my want

  Or of my loss reprove you, that you take

  My crown of love to gild your crown of gold;

  I know what right you have, and take no shame

  To sit for your sake humbled, who being born

  A poor mean woman would not less have been

  By God’s grace royal, and by visible seal

  A natural queen of women; but being crowned

  You make the throne imperial, and your hand

&n
bsp; Puts power into the sceptre; yea, this head

  Of its gold circlet takes not majesty,

  But gives it of its own; this may men see,

  And I deny not; nor is this but just,

  That I, who have no such honour born or given,

  Should have not either, if it please you not,

  That which I thought I had; the name I wore,

  The hand scarce yet a year since laid in mine,

  The eye that burned on mine as on a wife’s,

  The lip that swore me faith, the heart that held

  No thought or throb wherein I had no part,

  Or heaved but with a traitor’s breath, and beat

  With pulse but of a liar.

  BOTHWELL.

  Ay, swore I so?

  Why, this was truth last year then.

  QUEEN.

  Truth, my lord?

  What does the fire of such a word as this

  Between such lips but burn them, as mine ears

  Burn that must hear by your device and hers

  With what strange flatteries on her prompted lips

  This dame unwedded lifts her hand unringed

  To abash me with its show of faith, and make

  Your wife ashamed at sight of such a love

  As yet she bears you that is not your wife?

  BOTHWELL.

  What devil should prick me to such empty proof

  And pride unprofitable? I pray you think

  I am no such boy to boast of such a spoil

  As chamberers make their brag of. Let her speak

  And part not as unfriends.

  QUEEN.

  Madam, and you

  That thus renumber and resound his vows,

  To what good end I know not, in our ear,

  What would you have of him whom your own will

  Rose up to plead against as false, to break

  His bonds that irked you and unspeak the word

  That held you hand in hand? Did you not pray

  To be set free from bondage, and now turn

  To question with the hand that you put off

  If it did well to loose you?

  JANE GORDON.

  Truly no;

  Nor will I question with your grace in this,

  Whether by mine own will and uncompelled

  I only would have put that hand away

  That I will say would yet have held mine fast

 

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