women's

Low as his own?

Lady Magdalen. There you strike in

the nail.

This coarseness is a want of fantasy.
It is the low man thinks the woman low;
Sin is too dull to see beyond himself.
Alice. Ah, Magdalen, sin is bold as
well as dull.

How dared he?

Lady Magdalen. Stupid soldiers oft are bold.

Poor lads, they see not what the general

sees,

A risk of utter ruin. I am not
Beyond his aim, or was not.

Alice.
Who? Not you?
Tell, tell me save my credit with my-
self.

Lady Magdalen. I never breathed it to a bird in the eaves, Would not for all the stars and maiden

moon

Our drooping Queen should know! In

Hampton Court

My window look'd upon the corridor; And I was robing ; - this poor throat of mine,

Barer than I should wish a man to see it,

When he we speak of drove the window back,

And, like a thief, push'd in his royal hand;

But by God's providence a good stout staff

Lay near me; and you know me strong of arm;

I do believe I lamed his Majesty's For a day or two, tho', give the Devil his due,

I never found he bore me any spite. Alice. I would she could have wedded that poor youth,

My Lord of Devon

knows,

light enough, God

travel,

Saving my confessor and my cousin Pole. Lady Magdalen. It is the Count de Feria, my dear lady.

Mary. What Count?

Lady Magdalen. The Count de Feria, from his Majesty

King Philip.

Mary. Philip! quick! loop up my hair!

Throw cushions on that seat, and make it throne-like.

-

Arrange my dress — the gorgeous Indian shawl

days!

Queenlike,

Bride of the mightiest sovereign upon earth?

Lady Clarence. Ay, so your Grace would bide a moment yet. Mary. No, no, he brings a letter. I may die

Before I read it. Let me see him at

once.

Enter COUNT DE FERIA (kneels). Feria. I trust your Grace is well.

(Aside) How her hand burns. Mary. I am not well, but it will better me,

Sir Count, to read the letter which you bring.

Feria. Madam, I bring no letter.
Mary.
How! no letter?
Feria. His Highness is so vex'd with
strange affairs

Mary. That his own wife is no affair
of his.

Feria. Nay, Madam, nay! he sends his veriest love,

And says, he will come quickly.
Mary.
Doth he, indeed?
You, sir, do you remember what you
said

Feria.

When last you came to England? Madam, I brought My King's congratulations; it was hoped Your Highness was once more in happy

state

death

Thou art commission'd to Elizabeth,
And not to me!

Feria. Mere compliments and wishes, But shall I take some message from your Grace?

Mary. Tell her to come and close my dying eyes,

And wear my crown, and dance upon my grave.

Feria. Then I may say your Grace will see your sister?

Your Grace is too low-spirited. Air and sunshine.

I would we had you, Madam, in our
warm Spain.
You droop in your dim London.
Mary.
Have him away,

I sicken of his readiness.

Lady Clarence. My Lord Count, Her Highness is too ill for colloquy. Feria (kneels, and kisses her hand). I wish her Highness better. (Aside) How her hand burns. [Exeunt.

SCENE III. A HOUSE NEAR LONDON.

ELIZABETH, STEWARD OF THE HOUSEHOLD, ATTENDANTS.

Elizabeth. There's half an angel wrong'd in your account; Methinks I am all angel, that I bear it Without more ruffling. Cast it o'er again.

Steward. I were whole devil if I wrong'd you, Madam.

[Exit STEWARD.

Attendant. The Count de Feria, from the King of Spain.

Elizabeth. Ah!- let him enter. Nay, you need not go :

[To her LADIES. Remain within the chamber, but apart. We'll have no private conference. Welcome to England!

--

he would have me Catholic of Rome,

And that I scarce can be; and, sir, till

now

My sister's marriage, and my father's marriages,

Make me full fain to live and die a maid. But I am much beholden to your King. Have you aught else to tell me?

Feria. Nothing, Madam, Save that methought I gather'd from the Queen

That she would see your Grace before she died.

Elizabeth. God's death! and wherefore spake you not before?

We dally with our lazy moments here, And hers are number'd. Horses there, without!

I am much beholden to the King, your master.

Why did you keep me prating? Horses, there! [Exit ELIZABETH, &c. Feria. So from a clear sky falls the thunderbolt!

Don

Carlos? Madam, if you marry
Philip,

Then I and he will snaffle your "God's death,"

And break your paces in, and make you tame;

God's death, forsooth-you do not know King Philip. [Exit.

Impossible;

They say she's dying.

Amen to

A Third Voice. Deserts! what? Whose deserts? Yours? You have a gold ring on your finger, and soft raiment about your body; and is not the woman up yonder sleeping after all she has done, in peace and quietness, on a soft bed, in a closed room, with light, fire, physic, tendance; and I have seen the true men of Christ lying famine-dead by scores, and under no ceiling but the cloud that wept on them, not for them.

First. Friend, tho' so late, it is not safe to preach.

You had best go home. What are you? Third. What am I? One who cries continually with sweat and tears to the Lord God that it would please Him out of His infinite love to break down all kingship and queenship, all priesthood and prelacy; to cancel and abolish all bonds of human allegiance, all the magistracy, all the nobles, and all the wealthy; and to send us again, according to his promise, the one King, the Christ, and all things in common, as in the day of the first church, when Christ Jesus was King.

I

Lady Clarence. Dear Madam, Philip is but at the wars;

cannot doubt but that he comes again; And he is with you in a measure still. never look'd upon so fair a likeness As your great King in armor there, his

I

hand

arms.

He said it was not courtly to stand hel

meted

Before the Queen. He had his gracious moment

Altho' you'll not believe me. How he smiles

As if he loved me yet!
Lady Clarence. And so he does.
Mary. He never loved me -
nay, he
could not love me.

It was his father's policy against France.
I am eleven years older than he,
Poor boy.
[Weeps.
Alice. That was a lusty boy of twen-
ty-seven;
[Aside.
Poor enough in God's grace!
Mary.
And all in vain !
The Queen of Scots is married to the
Dauphin,

And Charles, the lord of this low world, is gone;

And all his wars and wisdoms past away; And in a moment I shall follow him. Lady Clarence. Nay, dearest Lady, see your good physician. Mary. Drugs but he knows they cannot help me That rest is all tells me I must not think That I must rest

says

I shall rest by and

May make your Grace forget yourself a little.

There runs a shallow brook across our

way

As if itself were happy. It was Maytime,

And I was walking with the man I loved. I loved him, but I thought I was not loved.

And both were silent, letting the wild brook Speak for us till he stoop'd and gather'd one From out a bed of thick forget-me-nots, Look'd hard and sweet at me, and gave it me,

I took it, tho' I did not know I took it, And put it in my bosom, and all at once I felt his arms about me, and his lips — Mary. O God! I have been too

slack, too slack;

There are Hot Gospellers even among our guards

Nobles we dared not touch. We have but burnt

The heretic priest, workmen, and women and children.

Wet, famine, ague, fever, storm, wreck, wrath,

We have so play'd the coward; but by God's grace,

We 'll follow Philip's leading, and set up

The Holy Office here-garner the wheat, And burn the tares with unquenchable fire!

Burn!

Fie, what a savor! tell the cooks to close The doors of all the offices below. Latimer!

Sir, we are private with our women here

Ever a rough, blunt, and uncourtly fellow

Thou light a torch that never will go

out!

"T is out. mine flames. Women, the Holy Father

Has ta'en the legateship from our cousin Pole

Was that well done? and poor Pole pines of it,

As I do, to the death. I am but a

woman, I have no power. old man,

field

flies five,

pardon !

--