I will bestow him, and will answer well
The death I gave him-So, again, good night.
I must be cruel, only to be kind;

Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.

SHAKSPEARE,

QUEEN MARY.

ACT V. SCENE V.

London. A room in the palace. Mary. Lady Clarence. Lady Magdalen Dacres. Alice. Queen pacing the gallery. A writing-table in front. Queen comes to the table and writes, and goes

again, still pacing the gallery.

Lady Clarence-Mine eyes are dim; what hath she written? Read.

Alice-"I am dying, Philip. Come to me."

Lady Magdalen-There, up and down, poor lady, up and down.

Alice-And how her shadow crosses, one by one, The moonlight casements pattern'd on the wall, Following her like her sorrow. She turns again.

[Queen sits and writes and goes again.] Lady Clarence-What hath she written now? Alice-Nothing but "Come, come, come," and all

awry,

And blotted by her tears. This cannot last.

[Queen returns.]

Mary-I whistle to the bird has broken cage,

And all in vain. [Sitting down.]

Calais gone. Guisnes gone, too-and Philip's gone!

Lady Clarence-Dear madam, Philip is but at the

wars;

I cannot doubt but that he comes again;

And he is with you in a measure still.
I never looked upon so fair a likeness
As your great king in armor there,
His hand upon his helmet.

[Pointing to the portrait of Philip on the wall.] Mary-Doth he not look noble?

I had heard of him in battle over seas,
And I would have my warrior all in arms.
He said it was not courtly to stand helmeted
Before the Queen. He had his gracious moments,
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 [aside]-That was a lusty boy of twenty-seven 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 wisdom pass'd away,

And in a moment I shall follow him.

Lady Clarence-Nay, dearest lady, see your good physician.

Mary-Drugs-but he knows they do not help me~

says

That rest is all-tells me I must not think-
That I must rest. I shall rest by and by.

Catch the wildcat, cage him, and when he

Springs and maims himself against the bars, say "rest!"
Why, you must kill him if you would have him rest.
Dead or alive you cannot make him happy.

Lady Clarence-Your majesty has lived so pure a
life,

And done such mighty things by Holy Church,
I trust that God will make you happy yet.

Mary-What is this strange thing, happiness?
Sit down here;

Tell me thine happiest hour.

Lady Clarence-I will, if that

Will make your grace forget yourself a little.
There runs a shallow brook across our field
For twenty miles, where the black crow flies five,
And doth so bound and babble all the way
As if itself were happy. It was May-time,
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 me
From out a bed of thick forget-me-nots,
Looked hard and sweet at me, and gave
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-

it me.

Mary-O! God, I have been too slack, too slack.
There are Hot Gospellers even among our guards—
Nobles we dare not touch. We have but burnt
The heretic priest, workmen, and women and children.
Wet, famine, ague, fever, storms, wreck, wrath,
We have so played 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! Fire, 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'st a torch that will never go out.
'Tis out-mine flames. Women, the Holy Father
Has ta'en the legateship from our Cousin Pole.
Was that well done?

As I do, to the death.

And poor Pole pines for it,

I am but a woman,

I have no power. Ah, weak and meek old man,
Seven-fold dishonor'd even in the sight

Of thine own sectaries-No, no. No pardon.
Why, that was false! There is the right hand still
Beckons me hence.

Sir, you were burnt for heresy, not for treason,

Remember that! 'Twas I and Bonner did it,

And Pole. We are three to one. Have you found

mercy there,

Grant it me here; and see he smiles and goes,
Gentle as in life.

Alice-Madam, who goes? King Philip?

Mary-No, Philip comes and goes, but never goes.

Women, when I am dead,

Open my heart, and there you'll find written

Two names, Philip and Calais. Open his

So that he have one

You will find Philip only, policy, policy—
Ay, worse than that-not one hour true to me!
Foul maggots crawling in a festered vice!
Adulterous to the very heart of hell!
Hast thou a knife?

Alice-Ay, madam, but o' God's mercy

Mary-Fool, think'st thou I would peril mine own

soul

By slaughter of the body? I could not, girl,
Not this way-callous with a constant stripe,
Unendurable. Thy knife!

Alice-Take heed, take heed!

The blade is keen as death.

Mary-This Philip shall not

Stare in upon me in my haggardness,

Old, miserable, diseased—

Come thou down!

[Cuts out the picture and throws it down.] Lie there! [Wails.] O God, I have killed my Philip! Alice-No, madam; you have but cut the canvas

out.

We can replace it.

Mary-All is well, then; rest,

I will to rest; he said I must have rest.

[Cries of" Elizabeth" in the street.]

A cry! What's that? Elizabeth? Revolt?
A new Northumberland? Another Wyatt?
I'll fight it out on the threshold of the grave.
Lady Clarence-Madam, your royal sister comes to

see you.

Mary-I will not see her.

Who knows if Boleyn's daughter be my sister?

I will see none except the priest.

Your arm. [To Lady Clarence.]

O Saint of Aragon, with that sweet worn smile

Among thy patient wrinkles

Help me hence. [Exeunt.]

TENNYSON.