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into some more costly stone Than ever blinded eye. I'll have one mark it And bring it me. I'll have it burnish'd firelike; I'll set it round with gold, with pearl, with diamond. Let the great angel of the church come with him; Stand on the deck and spread his wings for sail! God lay the waves and strow the storms at sea, And here at land among the people! O Renard, I am much beset, I am almost in despair. Paget is ours. Gardiner perchance is ours; But for our heretic Parliament— RENARD. O Madam, You fly your thoughts like kites. My master, Charles, Bad you go softly with your heretics here, Until your throne had ceased to tremble. Then Spit them like larks for aught I care. Besides, When Henry broke the carcase of your church To pieces, there were many wolves among you Who dragg'd the scatter'd limbs into their den. The Pope would have you make them render these; So would your cousin, Cardinal Pole; ill counsel! These let them keep at present; stir not yet This matter of the Church lands. At his coming Your star will rise. MARY. My star! a baleful one. I see but the black night, and hear the wolf. What star? RENARD. Your star will be your princely son, Heir of this England and the Netherlands! And if your wolf the while should howl for more, We'll dust him from a bag of Spanish gold. I do believe, I have dusted some already, That, soon or late, your Parliament is ours. MARY. Why do they talk so foully of your Prince, Renard? RENARD. The lot of Princes. To sit high Is to be lied about. MARY. They call him cold, Haughty, ay, worse. RENARD. Why, doubtless, Philip shows Some of the bearing of your blue blood—still All within measure—nay, it well becomes him. MARY. Hath he the large ability of his father? RENARD. Nay, some believe that he will go beyond him. MARY. Is this like him? RENARD. Ay, somewhat; but your Philip Is the most princelike Prince beneath the sun. This is a daub to Philip. MARY. Of a pure life? RENARD. As an angel among angels. Yea, by Heaven, The text—Your Highness knows it, 'Whosoever Looketh after a woman,' would not graze The Prince of Spain. You are happy in him there, Chaste as your Grace! MARY. I am happy in him there. RENARD. And would be altogether happy, Madam, So that your sister were but look'd to closer. You have sent her from the court, but then she goes, I warrant, not to hear the nightingales, But hatch you some new treason in the woods. MARY. We have our spies abroad to catch her tripping, And then if caught, to the Tower. RENARD. The Tower! the block! The word has turn'd your Highness pale; the thing Was no such scarecrow in your father's time. I have heard, the tongue yet quiver'd with the jest When the head leapt—so common! I do think To save your crown that it must come to this. MARY. No, Renard; it must never come to this. RENARD. Not yet; but your old Traitors of the Tower— Why, when you put Northumberland to death, The sentence having past upon them all, Spared you the Duke of Suffolk, Guildford Dudley, Ev'n that young girl who dared to wear your crown? MARY. Dared? nay, not so; the child obey'd her father. Spite of her tears her father forced it on her. RENARD. Good Madam, when the Roman wish'd to reign, He slew not him alone who wore the purple, But his assessor in the throne, perchance A child more innocent than Lady Jane. MARY. I am English Queen, not Roman Emperor. RENARD. Yet too much mercy is a want of mercy, And wastes more life. Stamp out the fire, or this Will smoulder and re-flame, and burn the throne Where you should sit with Philip: he will not come Till she be gone. MARY. Indeed, if that were true— For Philip comes, one hand in mine, and one Steadying the tremulous pillars of the Church— But no, no, no. Farewell. I am somewhat faint With our long talk. Tho' Queen, I am not Queen Of mine own heart, which every now and then Beats me half dead: yet stay, this golden chain— My father on a birthday gave it me, And I have broken with my father—take And wear it as memorial of a morning Which found me full of foolish doubts, and leaves me As hopeful. RENARD (aside). Whew—the folly of all follies Is to be love-sick for a shadow. (Aloud) Madam, This chains me to your service, not with gold, But dearest links of love. Farewell, and trust me, Philip is yours. [Exit. MARY. Mine—but not yet all mine. Enter USHER. USHER. Your Council is in Session, please your Majesty. MARY. Sir, let them sit. I must have time to breathe. No, say I come. (Exit USHER.) I won by boldness once. The Emperor counsell'd me to fly to Flanders. I would not; but a hundred miles I rode, Sent out my letters, call'd my friends together, Struck home and won. And when the Council would not crown me—thought To bind me first by oaths I could not keep, And keep with Christ and conscience—was it boldness Or weakness that won there? when I, their Queen, Cast myself down upon my knees before them, And those hard men brake into woman tears, Ev'n Gardiner, all amazed, and in that passion Gave me my Crown. Enter ALICE. Girl; hast thou ever heard Slanders against Prince Philip in our Court? ALICE. What slanders? I, your Grace; no, never. MARY. Nothing? ALICE. Never, your Grace. MARY. See that you neither hear them nor repeat! ALICE (aside). Good Lord! but I have heard a thousand such. Ay, and repeated them as often—mum! Why comes that old fox-Fleming back again? Enter RENARD. RENARD. Madam, I scarce had left your Grace's presence Before I chanced upon the messenger Who brings that letter which we waited for— The formal offer of Prince Philip's hand. It craves an instant answer, Ay or No. MARY. An instant Ay or No! the Council sits. Give it me quick. ALICE (stepping before her). Your Highness is all trembling. MARY. Make way. [Exit into the Council Chamber. ALICE. O, Master Renard, Master Renard, If you have falsely painted your fine Prince; Praised, where you should have blamed him, I pray God No woman ever love you, Master Renard. It breaks my heart to hear her moan at night As tho' the nightmare never left her bed. RENARD. My pretty maiden, tell me, did you ever Sigh for a beard? ALICE. That's not a pretty question. RENARD. Not prettily put? I mean, my pretty maiden, A pretty man for such a pretty maiden. ALICE. My Lord of Devon is a pretty man. I hate him. Well, but if I have, what then? RENARD. Then, pretty maiden, you should know that whether A wind be warm or cold, it serves to fan A kindled fire. ALICE. According to the song. His friends would praise him, I believed 'em, His foes would blame him, and I scorn'd 'em, His friends—as Angels I received 'em, His foes—the Devil had suborn'd 'em. RENARD. Peace, pretty maiden. I hear them stirring in the Council Chamber. Lord Paget's 'Ay' is sure—who else? and yet, They are all too much at odds to close at once In one full-throated No! Her Highness comes. Enter MARY. ALICE. How deathly pale!—a chair, your Highness [Bringing one to the QUEEN. RENARD. Madam, The Council? MARY. Ay! My Philip is all mine. [Sinks into chair, half fainting.
ACT II
SCENE I.—ALINGTON CASTLE.
SIR THOMAS WYATT. I do not hear from Carew or the Duke
Of Suffolk, and till then I should not move.
The Duke hath gone to Leicester; Carew stirs
In Devon: that fine porcelain Courtenay,
Save that he fears he might be crack'd in using,
(I have known a semi-madman in my time
So fancy-ridd'n) should be in Devon too.
Enter WILLIAM. News abroad, William? WILLIAM. None so new, Sir Thomas, and none so old, Sir Thomas. No new news that Philip comes to wed Mary, no old news that all men hate it. Old Sir Thomas would have hated it. The bells are ringing at Maidstone. Doesn't your worship hear? WYATT. Ay, for the Saints are come to reign again. Most like it is a Saint's-day. There's no call As yet for me; so in this pause, before The mine be fired, it were a pious work To string my father's sonnets, left about Like loosely-scatter'd jewels, in fair order, And head them with a lamer rhyme of mine, To grace his memory. WILLIAM. Ay, why not, Sir Thomas? He was a fine courtier, he; Queen Anne loved him. All the women loved him. I loved him, I was in Spain with him. I couldn't eat in Spain, I couldn't sleep in Spain. I hate Spain, Sir Thomas. WYATT. But thou could'st drink in Spain if I remember. WILLIAM. Sir Thomas, we may grant the wine. Old Sir Thomas always granted the wine. WYATT. Hand me the casket with my father's sonnets. WILLIAM. Ay—sonnets—a fine courtier of the old Court, old Sir Thomas. [Exit. WYATT. Courtier of many courts, he loved the more His own gray towers, plain life and letter'd peace, To read and rhyme in solitary fields, The lark above, the nightingale below, And answer them in song. The sire begets Not half his likeness in the son. I fail Where he was fullest: yet—to write it down. [He writes. Re-enter WILLIAM. WILLIAM. There is news, there is news, and no call for sonnet-sorting now, nor for sonnet-making either, but ten thousand men on Penenden Heath all calling after your worship, and your worship's name heard into Maidstone market, and your worship the