by John Dryden
Like parchment in a flame.
Mel. Thou can’st not do it.
Behold this hour-glass.
Mal. Well, and what of that?
Mel. Seest thou these ebbing sands?
They run for thee, and when their race is run,
Thy lungs, the bellows of thy mortal breath,
Shall sink for ever down, and heave no more.
Mal. What, resty, fiend?
Nine years thou hast to serve.
Mel. Not full nine minutes.
Mal. Thou liest; look on thy bond, and view the date.
Mel. Then, wilt thou stand to that without appeal?
Mal.. I will, so help me heaven!
Mel. So take thee hell.[Gives him the bond.
There, fool; behold who lies, the devil, or thou?
Mal. Ha! one-and-twenty years are shrunk to twelve!
Do my eyes dazzle?
Mel. No, they see too true:
They dazzled once, I cast a mist before them,
So what was figured twelve, to thy dull sight
Appeared full twenty-one.
Mal. There’s equity in heaven for this, a cheat.
Mel. Fool, thou hast quitted thy appeal to heaven,
To stand to this.
Mal. Then I am lost for ever!
Mel. Thou art.
Mal. O why was I not warned before?
Mel. Yes, to repent; then thou hadst cheated me.
Mal. Add but a day, but half a day, an hour:
For sixty minutes, I’ll forgive nine years.
Mel. No, not a moment’s thought beyond my time.
Dispatch; ’tis much below me to attend
For one poor single fare.
Mal. So pitiless?
But yet I may command thee, and I will:
I love the Guise, even with my latest breath,
Beyond my soul, and my lost hopes of heaven:
I charge thee, by my short-lived power, disclose
What fate attends my master.
Mel. If he goes
To council when he next is called, he dies.
Mal. Who waits?
Enter Servant.
Go, give my lord my last adieu;
Say, I shall never see his eyes again;
But if he goes, when next he’s called, to council,
Bid him believe my latest breath, he dies. — [Exit Serv.
The sands run yet. — O do not shake the glass! — [Devil shakes the glass.
I shall be thine too soon! — Could I repent! —
Heaven’s not confined to moments. — Mercy, mercy!
Mel. I see thy prayers dispersed into the winds,
And heaven has past them by.
I was an angel once of foremost rank,
Stood next the shining throne, and winked but half;
So almost gazed I glory in the face,
That I could bear it, and stared farther in;
’Twas but a moment’s pride, and yet I fell,
For ever fell; but man, base earth-born man,
Sins past a sum, and might be pardoned more:
And yet ’tis just; for we were perfect light,
And saw our crimes; man, in his body’s mire,
Half soul, half clod, sinks blindfold into sin,
Betrayed by frauds without, and lusts within.
Mel. Then I have hope.
Mal. Not so; I preached on purpose
To make thee lose this moment of thy prayer.
Thy sand creeps low; despair, despair, despair!
Mal. Where am I now? upon the brink of life,
The gulph before me, devils to push me on,
And heaven behind me closing all its doors.
A thousand years for every hour I’ve past,
O could I ‘scape so cheap! but ever, ever!
Still to begin an endless round of woes,
To be renewed for pains, and last for hell!
Yet can pains last, when bodies cannot last?
Can earthy substance endless flames endure?
Or, when one body wears and flits away,
Do souls thrust forth another crust of clay,
To fence and guard their tender forms from fire?
I feel my heart-strings rend! — I’m here, — I’m gone!
Thus men, too careless of their future state,
Dispute, know nothing, and believe too late. [A flash of lightning, they sink together.
SCENE III. — Enter Duke of Guise; Cardinal, and Aumale.
Card. A dreadful message from a dying man,
A prophesy indeed!
For souls, just quitting earth, peep into heaven,
Make swift acquaintance with their kindred forms,
And partners of immortal secrets grow.
Aum. ’Tis good to lean on the securer side:
When life depends, the mighty stake is such,
Fools fear too little, and they dare too much.
Enter Arch-Bishop.
Gui. You have prevailed, I will not go to council.
I have provoked my sovereign past a pardon,
It but remains to doubt if he dare kill me:
Then if he dares but to be just, I die.
’Tis too much odds against me; I’ll depart,
And finish greatness at some safer time.
Arch. By heaven, ’tis Harry’s plot to fright you hence,
That, coward-like, you might forsake your friends.
Gui. The devil foretold it dying Malicorn.
Arch. Yes, some court-devil, no doubt:
If you depart, consider, good my lord,
You are the master-spring that moves our fabric,
Which once removed, our motion is no more.
Without your presence, which buoys up our hearts,
The League will sink beneath a royal name;
The inevitable yoke prepared for kings
Will soon be shaken off; things done, repealed;
And things undone, past future means to do.
Card. I know not; I begin to taste his reasons.
Arch. Nay, were the danger certain of your stay,
An act so mean would lose you all your friends,
And leave you single to the tyrant’s rage:
Then better ’tis to hazard life alone,
Than life, and friends, and reputation too.
Gui. Since more I am confirmed, I’ll stand the shock.
Where’er he dares to call, I dare to go.
My friends are many, faithful, and united;
He will not venture on so rash a deed:
And now, I wonder I should fear that force,
Which I have used to conquer and contemn.
Enter Marmoutiere.
Arch. Your tempter comes, perhaps, to turn the scale,
And warn you not to go.
Gui. O fear her not,
I will be there.[Exeunt Arch-Bishop and Cardinal.
What can she mean? — repent?
Or is it cast betwixt the king and her
To sound me? come what will, it warms my heart
With secret joy, which these my ominous statesmen
Left dead within me; — ha! she turns away.
Mar. Do you not wonder at this visit, sir?
Gui. No, madam, I at last have gained the point
Of mightiest minds, to wonder now at nothing.
Mar. Believe me, Guise, ‘twere gallantly resolved,
If you could carry it on the inside too.
Why came that sigh uncalled? For love of me,
Partly, perhaps; but more for thirst of glory,
Which now again dilates itself in smiles,
As if you scorned that I should know your purpose.
Gui. I change, ’tis true, because I love you still;
Love you, O heaven, even in my own despite;
I tell you all, even at that very moment,
I know you straight betray me to the king.
Mar. O Guise, I never did; but, sir, I co
me
To tell you, I must never see you more.
Gui. The king’s at Blois, and you have reason for it;
Therefore, what am I to expect from pity, —
From yours, I mean, — when you behold me slain?
Mar. First answer me, and then I’ll speak my heart.
Have you, O Guise, since your last solemn oath,
Stood firm to what you swore? Be plain, my lord,
Or run it o’er a while, because again
I tell you, I must never see you more.
Gui. Never! — She’s set on by the king to sift me.
Why, by that never then, all I have sworn
Is true, as that the king designs to end me.
Mar. Keep your obedience, — by the saints, you live.
Gui. Then mark; ’tis judged by heads grown white in council,
This very day he means to cut me off.
Mar. By heaven, then you’re forsworn; you’ve broke your vows.
Gui. By you, the justice of the earth, I have not.
Mar. By you, dissembler of the world, you have.
I know the king.
Gui. I do believe you, madam.
Mar. I have tried you both.
Gui. Not me, the king you mean.
Mar. Do these o’erboiling answers suit the Guise?
But go to council, sir, there shew your truth;
If you are innocent, you’re safe; but O,
If I should chance to see you stretched along,
Your love, O Guise, and your ambition gone,
That venerable aspect pale with death,
I must conclude you merited your end.
Gui. You must, you will, and smile upon my murder.
Mar. Therefore, if you are conscious of a breach,
Confess it to me. Lead me to the king;
He has promised me to conquer his revenge,
And place you next him; therefore, if you’re right,
Make me not fear it by asseverations,
But speak your heart, and O resolve me truly!
Gui. Madam, I’ve thought, and trust you with my soul.
You saw but now my parting with my brother,
The prelate too of Lyons; it was debated
Warmly against me, that I should go on.
Mar. Did I not tell you, sir?
Gui. True; but in spite
Of those imperial arguments they urged,
I was not to be worked from second thought:
There we broke off; and mark me, if I live,
You are the saint that makes a convert of me.
Mar. Go then: — O heaven! Why must I still suspect you?
Why heaves my heart, and overflow my eyes?
Yet if you live, O Guise, — there, there’s the cause, —
I never shall converse, nor see you more.
Gui. O say not so, for once again I’ll see you.
Were you this very night to lodge with angels,
Yet say not never; for I hope by virtue
To merit heaven, and wed you late in glory.
Mar. This night, my lord, I’m a recluse for ever.
Gui. Ha! stay till morning: tapers are too dim;
Stay till the sun rises to salute you;
Stay till I lead you to that dismal den
Of virgins buried quick, and stay for ever.
Mar. Alas! your suit is vain, for I have vowed it:
Nor was there any other way to clear
The imputed stains of my suspected honour.
Gui. Hear me a word! — one sigh, one tear, at parting,
And one last look; for, O my earthly saint,
I see your face pale as the cherubins’
At Adam’s fall.
Mar. O heaven! I now confess,
My heart bleeds for thee, Guise.
Gui. Why, madam, why?
Mar. Because by this disorder,
And that sad fate that bodes upon your brow,
I do believe you love me more than glory.
Gui. Without an oath I do; therefore have mercy,
And think not death could make me tremble thus;
Be pitiful to those infirmities
Which thus unman me; stay till the council’s over;
If you are pleased to grant an hour or two
To my last prayer, I’ll thank you as my saint:
If you refuse me, madam, I’ll not murmur.
Mar. Alas, my Guise! — O heaven, what did I say?
But take it, take it; if it be too kind,
Honour may pardon it, since ’tis my last.
Gui. O let me crawl, vile as I am, and kiss
Your sacred robe. — Is’t possible! your hand! [She gives him her hand.
O that it were my last expiring moment,
For I shall never taste the like again.
Mar. Farewell, my proselyte! your better genius
Watch your ambition.
Gui. I have none but you:
Must I ne’er see you more?
Mar. I have sworn you must not:
Which thought thus roots me here, melts my resolves,[Weeps.
And makes me loiter when the angels call me.
Gui. O ye celestial dews! O paradise!
O heaven! O joys, ne’er to be tasted more!
Mar. Nay, take a little more: cold Marmoutiere,
The temperate, devoted Marmoutiere
Is gone, — a last embrace I must bequeath you.
Gui. And O let me return it with another!
Mar. Farewell for ever; ah, Guise, though now we part,
In the bright orbs, prepared us by our fates,
Our souls shall meet, — farewell! — and Io’s sing above,
Where no ambition, nor state-crime, the happier spirits prove,
But all are blest, and all enjoy an everlasting love. [Exit Marmoutiere.
Guise solus.
Gui. Glory, where art thou? fame, revenge, ambition,
Where are you fled? there’s ice upon my nerves;
My salt, my metal, and my spirits gone,
Palled as a slave, that’s bed-rid with an ague,
I wish my flesh were off.[Blood falls from his nose.
What now! thou bleed’st: —
Three, and no more! — what then? and why, what then?
But just three drops! and why not just three drops,
As well as four or five, or five and twenty?
Enter a Page.
Page. My lord, your brother and the arch-bishop wait you.
Gui. I come; — down, devil! — ha! must I stumble too?
Away, ye dreams! what if it thundered now,
Or if a raven crossed me in my way?
Or now it comes, because last night I dreamt
The council-hall was hung with crimson round,
And all the ceiling plaistered o’er with black.
No more! — Blue fires, and ye dull rolling lakes,
Fathomless caves, ye dungeons of old night,
Phantoms, be gone! if I must die, I’ll fall
True politician, and defy you all.[Exit.
SCENE II. — The Court before the Council-hall.
Grillon, Larchant, Soldiers placed, People crowding
Gril. Are your guards doubled, captain?
Larch. Sir, they are.
Gril. When the Guise comes, remember your petition. —
Make way there for his eminence; give back. —
Your eminence comes late.
Enter two Cardinals, Counsellors, the Cardinal of Guise, Arch-bishop of Lyons, last the Guise.
Gui. Well, colonel, are we friends?
Gril. ‘Faith, I think not.
Gui. Give me your hand.
Gril. No, for that gives a heart.
Gui. Yet we shall clasp in heaven.
Gril. By heaven, we shall not,
Unless it be with gripes.
Gui. True Grillon still.
Larch. My lord.
Gui. Ha! captain, you are well atten
ded:
If I mistake not, sir, your number’s doubled.
Larch. All these have served against the heretics;
And therefore beg your grace you would remember
Their wounds and lost arrears.
Gui. It shall be done. —
Again, my heart! there is a weight upon thee,
But I will sigh it off. — Captain, farewell. [Exeunt Cardinal, Guise, &c.
Gril. Shut the hall-door, and bar the castle-gates:
March, march there closer yet, captain, to the door.[Exeunt.
SCENE III. — The Council-hall.
Gui. I do not like myself to-day.
Arch. A qualm! he dares not.
Card. That’s one man’s thought; he dares, and that’s another’s.
Enter Grillon.
Gui. O Marmoutiere! ha, never see thee more?
Peace, my tumultuous heart! why jolt my spirits
In this unequal circling of my blood?
I’ll stand it while I may. O mighty nature!
Why this alarm? why dost thou call me on
To fight, yet rob my limbs of all their use?[Swoons.
Card. Ha! he’s fallen, chafe him. He comes again.
Gui. I beg your pardons; vapours, no more.
Gril. The effect
Of last night’s lechery with some working whore.
Enter Revol.
Rev. My lord of Guise, the king would speak with you.
Gui. O cardinal, O Lyons! — but no more;
Yes, one word more: thou hast a privilege[To the Cardinal.
To speak with a recluse; O therefore tell her,
If never thou behold’st me breathe again,
Tell her I sighed it last. — O Marmoutiere![Exit bowing.
Card. You will have all things your own way, my lord.
By heaven, I have strange horror on my soul.
Arch. I say again, that Henry dares not do it.
Card. Beware, your grace, of minds that bear like him.
I know he scorns to stoop to mean revenge;
But when some mightier mischief shocks his toure,
He shoots at once with thunder on his wings,
And makes it air. — hut hark, my lord, ’tis doing!
Guise within.] Murderers, villains!
Arch. I hear your brother’s voice; run to the door.
Card. and Arch. run to the door.
Card. Help, help, the Guise is murdered!
Arch. Help, help!
Gril. Cease your vain cries, you are the king’s prisoners; —
Take them, Dugast, into your custody.
Card. We must obey, my lord, for heaven calls us. [Exeunt.
The Scene draws, behind it a Traverse.
The Guise is assaulted by eight. They stab him in all parts, but most in the head.
Gui. O villains! hell-hounds! hold. [Half draws his sword, is held.
Murdered, O basely, and not draw my sword! —
Dog, Lognac, — but my own blood choaks me.