H3g3 A1 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME FROM THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND THE GIFT OF 1891 ;K.^S^^1';;> a\MY\- The date shows when this volume was taken. To renew this book copy the call No. and t^ife to the librarian. i4U(? J? 1SI9 """^ "SE RULES. '" . All Books subject to Recall. Books, not used, for Jnstniction or reEearch ~are returnable, within 4 weeks.! Volumes of periodi- cals and of pamphlets are h^ld in the library as much as possible. For special purposes they are givefn out ^or ajimited time. '^Borrowers should hot use their library privileges for the bene- fit of other persons. ' Books not needed during .recess periods should "be returned to the library, orarrange- ments made for theif returti during borrow- er's absence,af wanted. Books needed hy more than one person are held on the reserve list. Botfks of special value and gift books, wheii the givpr wishes it, are not allowed to' cij'cti&ite. Headers are asked , tcj rej^ort all cases bf ^ books marked or mliti- lated.- Do.not deface books by marks end writing. i Cornell University Library PR 4759.H383A9 Arabella Stuart; The heir of Linne; Tasso 3 1924 013 480 250 M Cornell University B Library The original of tliis book is in tlie Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013480250 ARABELLA STUART. THE HEIR OF LINNE. TASSO. ARABELLA STUART. THE HEIR OF LINNE. TASSO. laiaps ROSS NEIL, qV^. ' v£ AUTHOR OF X Hik-r U'OodL *LADV JANE GREY,' * INEZ,* ' THE CID,' ' ELFINELLA,' ETC. f',- .-. a f^ ^ C) ■ ^ ^. -T . , . -: ', ffK 'r ■(, \' LONDON: ELLIS AND WHITE, 29 NEW BOND STREET. 1879. 5^ All these Plays are entered on the list of the Dramatic Author^ Society. Proceedings will immediately be taken against any infringement of the Author's rights. ARABELLA STUART. PERSONS REPRESENTED. King James the First. Robert Cecil, Earl of Salisbury. William Seymour, in love with Arabella, afterwards married to her. Sir James Croft, a Gentleman of the Court. Hugh Crompton, a Servant to Arabella. A Physician. A Sea-Captain. Arabella Stuart, Cousin to the King. Countess of Shrewsbury, Aunt to Arabella. Lords, Ladies, Gentlewomen attending on Arabella, Pages of the King, an Officer, a Peasant-Bride and her Father, Guards, Sailors, Warders, a Woman-Attendant waiting on Arabella in the Tower, &'c. The Scene is laid in and near London, except during the Fourth Act, when it is on board a ship at sea. ARABELLA STUART. ACT I. SCENE I. An Antechamber in Whitehall Palace. The Earl of SAysBURY discovered, with the Countess OF Shrewsbury. Music heard at intervals from Lady Sh. I fear my lord of Salisbury will chide My boldness that hath dared to call him forth From the revels that he graces ; yet I know He grudges less to leave the dance by night Than the council-board by day. Sal 'Tis true my minutes Are seldom mine. Since for brief space they are, I pray you to command them, and to say What I may do to serve you. Lady Sh. O my lord, You know without my telling — if indeed 'Tis sooth what I have heard, that this great day, 2 ARABELLA STUART. [act i. Marked out for joy, since chosen by the king To magnify his son and royal hope With the style of Prince of Wales— that such a day Is o'er, and no grace shown to my poor niece, Who would fare better were she but my niece, And not King James's cousin. Sal. What is here Your meaning, madam, passes my poor wit. Upon the Lady Arabella's head The king hath poured his bounty with full hands, And drawn occasion from this joyful time To endow her with a royal revenue. Making her fortunes equal with her birth. Lady Sh. Is gold your only med'cine, gold your food For ev'ry longing ? Sal. I have found it, madam, The fare most welcome to the most of men, Wherein I will not say they judge amiss — A diet solid, generous, and rich, And appetising even while it fills. Lady Sh. But for a maiden's heart, sir, not enough. You mock my niece with gold, while all she would Is leave to love. Sal. Leave that she hath conferred Upon herself, 'twould seem. Lady Sh. Leave then to wed The man she loves and cannot cease to love, To whom her troth is giv'n, and lacking whom SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 3 She droops and pines e'en as a rose in the dark That starves for sunshine. Sal. For what now she bears She hath to thank herself, who let her choice Outrun the king's permission, and dared lend Her ear to vows of love he knew not of. Lady Sh. Alas ! is love indeed a froward child, As poets paint, that we can thrust him out When he comes in unbid ? You know, my lord. Great princes have been suitors for my niece. And she was well content the king to all Should deal rejection, for her heart was free ; But unto William Seymour, when he wooed. She listened, for she loved. Sal. The more her blame, And more her cause to praise a gracious king Who, where he might have punished, seeks no further Than to restrain the offence, and unto her. And him that shared her fault, accords free pardon With but submission for the price. Lady Sh. O say ' With but the breaking of her heart for price — I tell you, sir, she loves. Sal. And if she loves. Others have loved and lived, and so will she. \Music heard. Nay, list how gaily there they carry it — Another dance begun, and 'mong them all None brighter in apparel and in smiles 4 ARABELLA STUART. [act i. Than your fair niece, more like, I fear, to break The hearts of us poor courtiers than her own. You were not at the masque ? 'tis pity much ; My Lady Arabella played the part Of a river-nymph, and truly with such grace That all our eyes were ravished ; coral, pearls, Shells, water-lilies, and what know I else, So gallantly became her that it seemed Nature had fashioned them express for her And her adornment. Will you not go in, And see them dance ? for, as I think, she wears Her naiad garments still. Lady Sh. I have no heart To look upon mock mirth. And if she smiles. Will Robert Cecil say he never used His face to hide his thoughts ? Sal. With Robert Cecil Your ladyship is hard. Lady Sh. O sir, 'tis you Are hard with me, and hard with my poor niece. To whom, not grudging life, why should you grudge The sweets of life ? What is there that the king. Or you that counsel him, should fear of harm From a weak maiden? Sal. From a maiden nought ; You say right well. Lady Sh. But if she weds you think That she shall be the mother of a race That from King James's hand shall pluck the orb ? SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 5 Are he and his indeed so weakly set ? Sal. You speak of things unfit for me to treat ; But, madam, this I'll say, there have been kings Would not have let a cousin live whose name Had so been used against them as this lady's Against my master. The Arabella plot Tastes in our mem'ry yet. Lady Sh. Was't fault of hers That knaves and madmen, playing at a plot, Dared take her name in their irrev'rerit mouths ? No more than Heaven's fault when Heaven is called To hear a perjured oath ; she was as true As they were false, and this the king doth know. Sal. This doth he know, and therefore 'tis she dwells Not in the Tower, but princess-like at court In. the king's own palace. Lady Sh. And is borne about With the court where'er it moves. My lord, your Tower Is not your only prison. Sal. This is scarce The thankfulness that you should show the king For having set your niece in the highest place, Next to his royal consort and himself And his own princely issue. Lady Sh. Sir, the plaice Is hers of right, since after him and his She is England's nearest heir^^liay, some would say 6 ARABELLA STUART, [act r. Nearer than they, being born within the realm, As he and his were not. Sal. Ay, this was made " The plof s chief argument. Lady Sh. I was too hot ; 1 pray you pardon me, and bear in mind An orphan's advocate may be allowed A little favour, and an orphan 'tis. Albeit a princess, that I move you for. Sal. Hark there ! you hear they bring the dance to end, The last to-night belike. Ay, even so ; Now doth the music play the revellers out. Lady Sh. An orphan, sir, with none to take her part But her dead mother's kinsfolk, since it seems Those of the father's side are too high placed For pitying a cousin. Sal. In the king She hath a friend sufficient for her needs, As by his bounty of to-day is shown. Madam, farewell ; the revels now are done, And I was bid attend his majesty In his closet ere he slept. Lady Sh. O yet a word Sal. My duty to your ladyship. \Exit. Lady Sh. A fox May be outwitted ; so may he be too, For more than fox he is not — ^neither he Nor the wise king he serves, a king so full SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 7 Of wisdom that it froths from out his mouth. Enter SEVMotJR. Sey. My Lady Shrewsbury ! Lady Sh. Who calls ? How now ! Seymour, thou foolish youth, hast thou forgot The air of the court for thee is perilous ? Sey. What hath proved mortal to my peace already Can do me no more hurt. O speak, what news ? You made your suit to Cecil — and he said? Nay, nay, no need to tell. Lady Sh. No need in truth ; For he who coins his master into gold By selling peace to Spain, how should he help The planting of a rival royal house To cheapen his own wares ? Sey. O if they knew How loathed by her and me is that word royal, They would put off the armour of their fears. And is this all your comfort ? Lady Sh. All — unless You'd have me tell with what fair phrase he spake, And how, in solemn self-applause, he stroked His beard the way of the hair. Would you find comfort, You must yourselves achieve it. Sey. How ? Lady Sh. Why, wed With no leave asked, and see if kings dare part Whom God hath joined. 8 ARABELLA STUART. [act i. Sey. To this I have urged her oft, But found her heart so faint and full of fears Mine failed me with mere pity. Lady Sh. Urge again, And in such desp'rate sort that she shall need More daring to deny than to consent. Sey. Sure when she hears no other way is left O could I see her now ! methinks my words Should come so hot and burning from my heart As to spread fire to all, fire that pent here Must scorch my life away. Lady Sh. To see her now ! 'Twere hard, and yet The revels are at end. And the guests parting, she past doubt returned Unto her chamber ; there have I the right To enter at all times, though you at none. Come then with me ', I will go pay my duty Unto my princess-niece before I sleep, You sitting waiting in my coach the while Beneath her casement. Sey. Ay ? Lady Sh. The casement's low. And the night dark, and I a friend within To give you signal when the way is clear. Sey. O dearest lady, I shall owe you more Than the world's debt to the all-bestowing sky. Lady Sh. Come, I will help your wooing. [Aside.] And perchance I'hus help to found a glorious race of kings SCENE II.] ARABELLA STUART. 9 Whom England, now by her clumsy Scot bestrid, Will joy to obey. Sey. What say you there ? O haste. \Eixeunt. SCENE II. Arabella's Apartment in the Palace. Two Gentlewomen discovered at work. Hugh Crompton sitting apart, reading. 1st Gen. Our lady tarries long. 2nd Gen. You might have known They would dance late to-night. ist Gen. Would I could be Where I might see them dance ! But I'll be sworn None fairer than my lady 'mong them all ; And these hands helped to set her fairness off. 2nd Gen. And these no less, so please you. 1st Gen. But 'twas I Ruffled her skirt in fashion of a wave. 2nd Gen. A wave that none had known to be a wave But for the diamond drops I sewed it with. 1st Gen. Nor then perchance but for the water- lilies And coral on her head — and will you say Her head was not my work ? Good master Crompton, Seemed not my lady's head-tire ravishing ? Cromp. Why, well enough. Your art had pleased 10 ARABELLA STUART. [act i. Could it have only painted on her face A little sunshine. \st Gen. Nay now, on my word, Her face was full of smiles. 2nd Gen. Indeed it seemed Her care was quite forgot. Cromp. O foolish maids ! Who take as easily a smile for joy As a little gauze for waves. Had you but served My lady long as I, and learned by heart The smile her childhood wore from mom to night, You would know mock from real. ist Gen. Voices ! hark ! And footsteps, yonder in the corridor ; My lady comes at last. Cromp. \Opening the door.\ Ay, she it is. Escorted home by a whole heathen troop Of river-gods and nymphs. £nier Arabella, wzYA Lords and Ladies, all in ■masquerading dress. ist Lord. Thus have we brought Our royal naiad to her native grot. And now must take our leave, wishing her dreams As sweet as ever murmuring sea-shell soothed. Ara. Most worthy Triton, and kind lady nymphs. My thanks to all for this your courtesy. And be your dreams as fair — of golden sands, And mermaid-haunted palaces of pearl. SCENE II.] ARABELLA STUART. ii \st Lady. I would not dream of mermaids ; I would dream Of dancing, and your fish-tailed dames dance not. 2nd Lord. They are unlucky too; they always come To a bad end. xst Lord. How so ? Ha ! now I see ; Good, very good. 2nd Lady. 'Tis well for us we stand Upon a better footing, as our prowess In the dance to-night hath proved. i.st Lady. O what a night ! Good faith, so merry a night I ne'er yet knew. Ara. Nor I — a merry time, e'en as you say;- Feast, music, dance — why, there was nought that lacked. What ! will you go so soon ? \st Lord. Madam, I fear You are overtired already. Ara. Tired ! not I — I feel as far from sleep as though mine eyes Had never known his power ; but you shall go And seek him if you will. Good-night to all Brother and sister rivers, small and great. \st Lord. Good-night, dear lady ; may our father Neptune Have you in his safe keeping evermore. Ara, A guardian something cold — yet take ray thanks. \Exeunt Lords and Ladies. What, girls ! I have made you wait. 12 ARABELLA STUART. [act i. xst Gen. Think not of that. Enough for us to see your ladyship Returned so full of mirth. Ara. Ay, full of mirth, Only a little weary. [Seating herself.'] Marvel not To see me weep ; 'tis nought but weariness. ist Gen. Alas ! how is't? and Gen. Sweet mistress ! Cromp. O I knew. Ara. And gladness to be back among my friends — For friends you are, I feel, and I have been Where all was show and seeming. Kind old Hugh, Look not so grieved. Cromp. Not if you will not weep. Ara. I will not more ; I have no cause — nay, rather Cause to be glad. I bring you home good news ; The king, in honour of this joyful time. Hath made me rich with a great revenue Whereby you all shall profit ; my friend Hugh Shall feel my friendship, and my faithful maids Have dowries when they wed — and wed they shall Whene'er and whom they please. [Knocking heard. Who knocks ? Pray, first A moment's breathing-space. So — open now. Crompton opens thedoor, and Enter Lady Shrewsbury. What ! my kind aunt ? Lady Sh. Forgive me that I come So late a visitant, but I was fain To see you ere you slept. Child, are you well ? SCENE 11.] ARABELLA STUART. 13 Ara. Seem I not well? I have danced and laughed all night As water-sprite did never. See you not I am a water-sprite ? or must I sit For ever by my fountain to be known ? Lady Sh. I can divine a fountain near at hand That hath not long been stopped. Beseech you, cousin, Grant me a little of your private time. Ara. Good friends, you hear; pray pardon me awhile. lM,dy Sh. Sleep or whate'er you will, but come not back Until your lady calls ; 'twixt her and me There's much to say. \Exeunt Crompton and Gentlewomen. Ara. What should there be to say ? Unless indeed that of all kinswomen You are the kindest, I the thankfuUest ? Lady Sh. Is't true this day you built your hopes upon Is past, and brought you from the king no grace Saving a little gold rubbed on your palm ? Ara. 'Tis true the king hath been to me to-day Most bounteous of his purse. Lady Sh. Ay, of his purse ? Not of your liberty ? Ara. He hath not said When I may have more liberty than now — But will one day perchance. 14 ARABELLA STUART. [act i. Lady Sh. And till that time You are content to wait ? Ara. To be content, Or strive to be, is the duty of us all. But see, good aunt, your questions crowd so thick That scarce they leave me room to say how much Your presence glads me. Lady Sh. To my mind content Is a full stop that we should only write When the greatest good is reached. Is that good yours ? Ara. Who is too eager for more good may lose The little that he hath. Can I, who seem To some a creature worth the envying,. Not be so much as patient ? Lady Sh. Cry yoil mercy ; I had forgot your palate must have changed With your changed fare, since those old days you dwelt Among your lowly kin of the mother's side. Now I remember, and will turn my pity To gratulation. Yea, to live at court. To walk a princess next the king and queen. To play a part, though but a waf ry part, In gauds like these, with gold enough in purse To pay the reck'ning — this should be well worth All else that life can show. Ara. So some might think. Alas ! what have I done that thus you seek SCENE II.] ARABELLA STUART. 15 iTo make that harder which was hard before ? Lady Sh. What ! have I fetched forth tears ? at least I see It is >vith much ado you choke them down. I knew I touched an easily bleeding place ; Where shall we find a salve? \Throwing open a window. Hither, and try What comfort lurks in the solemn midnight air. You will not come ? then shall it come to you, And kiss your paling roses back to life. Make ready now to ^ee the sight in the world That most you long for. Ara. He! is'the? Enter Seymour, leaping in by the window. Sey. Yea, I, Who have hungered till I starve. What ! pale, my love? And tears upon your cheek ? Ara. Regard them not ; Weeping is now no pain, for thou art by. Sey. I am glad that thou hast wept, since thus I see That still thou lovest. Ara. Hast thou doubted then ? I neVi||doubted thee ; to me thou wast But as a missing part of mine own self — Though missing O how long ! And I forgot ; I should not joy to see thee, for my joy i6 ARABELLA STUART. [act i. Is paid for with thy peril. I am wrong Even to wish thee near. Lady Sh. Fear not for auglit ; None knows of this, nor shall ; the doors are locked, And I, a trusty sentinel, on guard. Drink your full fill of comfort till by me You are told 'tis time to part. \She seats herself by the window, seeming to take no further notice of the others. Sey. So thou wast jealous To hear I doubted ; if I doubted ever, The fault was thine. Ara. I know that now you speak Only to vex me, yet vnll not be vexed Where I should be so glad. Sey. Were but thy love As large as mine, we twain should now make one In spite of kings and councillors and all. Thou couldst not have denied. Ara. If I denied, 'Twas that I dared no other. I perchance Am weak, but not my love. Sey. Then prove it yet, By daring for my sake. Say thou but yea, And all is done — the time, the place, the means, Ready in my brain devised — a reVrend man ^ To give us blessing found, whom I will bring, Myself disguised, disguised unto thy room. So thou but love me well enough to dare SCENE II.]. ARABELLA STUART. 17 For me, as I for thee. Ara. O but the king — Thou knoVst him not as I ; he jests and laughs, Yet when he hath a purpose keeps it still, And the more stubbornly the raore opposed, As a knot that, strained at, tightens. Sey. Be it so ; But both our disobedience and our joys Shall from the king be hid, and if at last They come to light, 'twill cost him more to part The husband and the wife than to divide A pair of sighing lovers. But I see Your measure of love suffices not for this. Ara. Nay, were it less, I think I could dare more; But being loved by thee and loving thee Is unto me so full a happiness, So new and strange and sweet, that miser-like I have more fear to lose than hope to gain. May I not shelter in content awhile Ere wand'ring forth anew ? ' ^ Sey. Ay, you can gild Your coldness with fair words. I know how 'tis ; Born royal, you would fain be royal still. Ara. O that there were a way to drain my veins Of whatsoe'er may flow therein of royal, And leave me but well-born enough for you, I'd kiss the knife that bled me. To be royal. This is the spectre that hath ever stepped 'Twixt me and what I would ; * must,' and ' must not,' c 1 8 ARABELLA STUART. [act i. And ' royal,' were the words that first I learned. Since I was born I have been as one who stood On a grey shore where mists and rain-clouds lay, While white-sailed ships, winged for some happy realni, Gleamed in far distant sunshine out at sea. And can you think I would not willingly Cast off my royalty ? — as willingly As this bespangled trash it decks me with. Sey. To cast it off is yours if so you will ; Be royal no more, but William Seymour's wife. Ara. Can men cast off their fate because they would ? And policy and state necessity. These are my fate, and had you felt as I How straitly they can curb, with a hand how hard. You would own their power, and fear. Sey. Fate is a word That sluggards use, to excuse their sluggishness, While the braver sort revolt, and oft-times find What they called fate was but the hollow image Of their own patience. Will you sacrifice Upon that altar both yourself and me. And years of love and joy that should be ours. And not e'en once make trial of revolt ? Are you so much a slave ? Ara. And if revolt Should make us doubly slaves ? I am now but curbed, And find it hard to bear; but punishment, Thy punishment perchance, ruin of thy life, SCENE ii.J ARABELLA STUART. 19 That dawned so fair till crossed by me, its cloud — save me, Heav'n, from this ! Sey. Say not 'tis I You are tender of; were I your only care You would not be so wary. Ara. Is it thus ? Why then, command me to whate'er you will. In all things I obey. • Sey. Then I command That thou shalt be my wife. Ara. What I have said 1 will not now unsay — if you are bent To stake all hope upon a single throw. I have lived long upon a little hope, And so could still methinks, but with no hope My spirit would droop to death, or to a deep More dark if darker were. Nay, nay, frown not ; I'll keep my word. Sey. Mine, all mine own, at last ! Lady Sh. [Coming forward.^ What ! you have conquered ? this is well, for time No more to-night may serve you ; one by one I have seen the lights from ev'ry window fade Till all the palace rests, or were at rest Save for the sleepy porters at the gate Waiting to let me forth ; we must make haste, Or drowsiness itself will rouse them up To anger first, then wonder. Get you gone The self-same way you entered, and lie hid 20 ARABELLA STUART. [act i. In my coach until I come. O never grudge To say farewell ; think that you next shall meet Upon your wedding-day. Sey. So hath she sworn ; And she shall find in me a creditpr Exacting of fulfilment. Ara. I am but A debtor over-willing. Lady Sh. Take a kiss In earnest of full payment, and begone. Sey. Farewell until I come in secret back To claim my secret treasure hidden here ; I'll find the way full soon. Yet one kiss more To live upon till then. Ara. Farewell ; my prayers, Happier than I, shall follow where thou goest. Lady Sh. Away, away ! \Exit Seymour, by the window. Good-night, thou royal bride, And if thy royalty e'er shine more full, Forget not me and all my service done. \Exit. Ara. O Heaven, thou that show'st me so much joy As a promised land before me, shut it not From out my view again, or kill me first. Ne'er to have had was well, and I could bear, But to have had and lose were black despair. \The Curtain falls. End of Act I. SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. ACT II. SCENE I. A Room in Whitehall Palace. Salisbury discovered, speaking with a Page. Page. My lord, I have delivered to the king Your message punctually — that you ^ere loth To break upon his leisure Sai. Which I knew No prince in the world e'er bought so dear as he, With labour dedicate to his countr/s good — You missed not that ? Page. Nay, nor aught else, my lord — ■ But that you were constrained to trespass now By a matter nearly touching him, which craved Instant consid'ring. Sal. And to this he says ? Page. That he will give his presence here forth- with. And lo, he comes already. Enter King James, attended by Pages. Sal. As the sun That breaks upon the cloud-perplexed earth. 22 ARABELLA STUART. [act ii. Good-morrow to your sacred nlajesty. King. Well, man, what would you ? By my soul, I think You all would stand without me as young babes Without their nurse, so oft you tug my skirts To save your stumbling ; all one where I be. Afield with the game in sight, or in the core And midmost kernel of a syllogism. You still must come to me and none but me To keep you on your feet. Sal. 'Tis true indeed That when our stores of wisdom are run dry We are constrained to seek it at the fount. King. I wish you ne'er may drain the fount as well. You bring your empty buckets there so oft. Scd. This might we fear, had we not learned by proof It is a source perennial. King. Ill for me That e'er you found it so, since for that cause You keep me chained in bonds as tight as those That Aristseus bound wise Proteus with. Hauling him forth from where ^ww ab undis Se redpit — your lordship's mem'ry serves ? Sal. Ay, and I see your majesty will seek, As Proteus did, to 'scape, with the oracle Still undelivered — therefore will I haste To unfold my bus'ness, but I pray you grant SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART 23 Your royal ear in private. King. Stand back all Profanum vulgus ; from the common gaze The great affairs of kings and states — arcana Imperii — must be wrapped up and hid. \All retire to the back part of the stage, except the King and Salisbury. Well, gossip, well ? what hath my little beagle Nosed out for me to-day that he hath scratched So hard to be let in ? Sal. Somewhat, so please you, Touching your majesty's near kinswoman. The Lady Arabella. King. One we deemed We had broken in — and doth she still curvet ? Sal. But though both she and he that dared to woo Seemed willing to forego where you forbade, Yet in most wise distrust your majesty Commanded me to set a secret watch On her and all her dealings, and, as ever, . Your wisdom by the event is glorified, For one whom in her household I had hired Hath brought me tidings which, if worthy trust, Show that the twain, abusing thanklessly Our simple confidence, already stand Bound in rebellious wedlock. King. Wedlock ! what ! Zounds, man I is that your word ? 24 ARABELLA STUART. [act ii. Sal: A word, my liege, I fear too fit, for if what I have heard Be not against all truth, the knot is tied. Kifig. So is the knot, ye loon, upon the rope We'll whip them with, and you shall feel it too For all your beagle's whine. Was't tied you said, And bound ? there spake you well ; we'll find a cord To bind them and to tie them up so hard They shall not wag a finger ; they shall feel Wedlock is not the only yoke that is, Nay, oor the heaviest, although, God wot. Heavy enough ; so the poor puling fools Would find full soon, and, troth, I have a mind To let them find, and never vex myself Meddling with bridled ass or brided man. Who truly do but stand an ell apart. Sal. I see again, as oft I've seen before, That wit and wisdom are twin sisters, bom To be the handmaids of your majesty. King. And whom should wit best fit if not a king ? Should he not be in that and all things else Facili princeps t Sal. As in sooth you are. But, r.ire, beseech you, think how you will deal In the bus'ness of this lady, which, most sure. If she hath so revolted as 'tis said And no curb found, is grave and full of peril Both to your place and person. ' King. On my word, SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 25 She is nought to me that I should put myself In peril for her sake ; that is a sight You ne'er need think to see. Sal. And peril 'twere Both to your royal self and royal heirs If you should let another stock take root And put forth leaves and branches, and with years Grow to a stately tree in whose broad shade ■ Traitors might safely shelter, as we saw Behind this lady's bare and branchless name They sought to shelter once. King. Ay, trust me well, I've not forgot ; of Arabella plots I'll have no more. Sal. Nor only here at home The danger were ; for foreign states that now In England see but you, and therefore pay To you and England homage, then might deem Their need of homage less, in England then Seeing a house divided 'gainst itself Tfiat through its own divisions might be ruled. King. K-'j, ay, revolt at home, and wars abroad — Here is fair recompense that she would make To me that fed and warmed her at my hearth. And pardoned her what traitors would have done Against me in her name, and asked for all Only obedience. But she soon shall find Obedience I will have. Sal. 'Twere hard indeed 26 ARABELLA STUART. [act ii. To let that wall of safety and of peace Built by your wisdom round us be rent through To give a pair of lovers room to kiss. King. I tell you, man, they ne'er shall kiss again, If I am king, and king I am, albeit Perchance they wish me less. Part them this day ; Here is the task I give you. Sal. And a task That shall be quickly done, if not to-day. At least with no more of delay than serves To make my knowledge of their treason sure ; For yet I have but hints and dark reports. With here and there a piece of proof, too weak For punishment to build on. King. What ! you hold The clue in hand, and yet must take an age To ravel out ? if I had been so dull * I and my Lords and Commons all had made Once on a time a journey in the air. Sal. Alas ! my liege, this lady with her smiles And honeyed words and ways hath so bewitched Those nearest to her person that all arts To unlock their lips were vain, so on our side. To watch for us, are only varlets left, The meanest in her household, and who stand The lowest in her counsels. King. Plague no more Your old carle's pate for that, but make to-night Your thanks to Heav'n for giving you a king SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 27 Who hath learned more than your grey hairs can teach Of policy and statecraft. Sal. So full oft I have seen by proof. King. Ay, and shall see again. You fain would know if Arabella Stuart Be William Seymour's wife ? then know you shall, Within this hour ; and how ? you next would ask — That shall you learn with waiting. \To one of the Pages behind.'] Hither, boy ; I have a charge for you. [To Salisbury.] You wonder much What way I'll go to work ? Sal. True, sire, I stand In wonder lost, knowing of your counsels nought But that great Heav'n hath put them in your heart. King. Sirrah, go give the Lady Arabella Our cousin-like and princely commendations. And tell her we entreat her here to lend Her presence for a space. Page. Not Mercury, Despatched by Jove, might fleeter be than I To do your royal bidding. [Exit. King. [To a second Page.] You, lad, next j Here is another charge. Go forth, and fetch Such of my council as you chance to find Within the palace precincts, unto whom Say they are called to be our witnesses 28 ARABELLA STUART. [act ii. In bus'ness of great weight — magni momenti — Wherein we are now engaged. 2nd Page. As Heav'n's commands Are sacred, so no less your majesty's. \Exit. . King. [To a third Tage.] You, send some stout half-dozen of my guards •To seize within his lodging on the person Of William Se)anour, who, when seized, forthwfth Must be brought hither, near at hand to wait Our royal pleasure, but to enter not Until we give command. ^rd Page. I am but born To do your high behests. \Exit. King. [7& Salisbury.] You marvel still ? See where the lady comes. Enter Arabella. Ho ! my fair coz, I give you greeting. Now who is't you send Your eyes in quest of? 'twas myself who spake, And said, I give you greeting. Ara. I the same Unto your majesty. King. How may this be ? You are pale, and by my troth as out of breath As a new-caught hare. Ara. Think you indeed, my liege ? Perchance because I made great haste to obey. King. I would have said 'twas fear, if I could guess SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 29 What cause of fear you had — and all effect Argues precedent cause, as verily Both Aristotle knows and the whipped dunce That squeals to see the rod. Ara. Fear, say you, sir ? What need should be for fear ? King. Certes, obedience Is the cat that best may look a king in the face ; So you do well to smile, and might metiiinks Smile boldher yet than now. Still must I marvel You have so little in you of the Eve You come, and ask not wherefore you were called. Ara. And wherefore then, so please you ? King. Since I know You are in love — ^what mean you starting thus ? — •' Knowing, ]*say, how much you are in love With masques and plays and all that may divert, I have bid you hither to be looker-on At a comxdia or comedy That we have now in hand. Are you so glad That you can scarce believe ? Ara. Who were not glad Being so favoured by your majesty ? Whom with my heart I thank. King. No need, no need. The subject's duty merits to be paid With the favour of the prince, and by my soul You please me well, in that you have shown yourself Docile to discipline — as saith Cicero 30 ARABELLA STUART. [act ii.. Ad disctplinam docilis — and quenched So wholly in your heart the foolish flame That there had lit itself. Ara. Ay, sir. I pray, When will this play begin ? King. And you did well And wisely so to obey, since still we see Who tastes forbidden fruit must find it turn To ashes in the mouth — forbidden whether By kings or Heav'n. For truly, if you think, You will discern the attributes of kings To be the same as Heav'n's — at their good pleasure To create or to destroy, to deal out life Or death as fit may seem, to judge all men. Being judged or held accountable by none. And in each heart to have the foremost place Of love and worship. What ! you see how close The likeness runs ? Ara. O you are great, I know — And great is Heaven too. But, sir, the play — When shall we see the play ? King. Soon — soon enough. Lo yonder some invited witnesses Who come to look ; spectatum veniunt. Enter some Lords of the Council, making obeisance to the King. My lords, good-morrow. You are here convened To be the audience of a comedy SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUAR 7. 31 Briefly to be presented, but we wait Some of the players yet. Be seated all ; And you, fair cousin, in the place of honour Here by my side ; meantime I will expound The plot or argument ; and, as I think, I can unwind a plot as well as most— What says my lord of Salisbury ? Ara. So then ? King. Our cousin hath scant patience. Ara. Ay, because I love to be diverted, as you say. And ne'er was in such vein for mirth as now. I hope the argument be merry enough ; Comedy was your word. King. This then it is ; First you shall see appear a prisoner Brought in by guards. Ara. A prisoner — and guards — Here's solemn matter. King. Ay, a prisoner Brought in by guards, to say his last farewell To his new-wedded wife. Ara. A sight to make Good wives and husbands sad. And then what comes ? King. That shall you see yourself, since I discern All that pertains is now in readiness. What ho ! let him that plays the prisoner Make entrance and begin. 32 ARABELLA STUART. [act ii. Enter Seymour, with Guards. Mark where he comes, And how so anxious-like and peeringly His eyes rove to and fro to seek his wife — For, as I said, the twain are now to part, And 'tis a woesome thing without farewell To part for ever. Ara. O but I am here — Love, husband, I am here. [Rushing forward, and throwing herself into Sey- mour's arms. King. So ! have you heard ? Public confession made ! She clean forgot She did but sit spectator at a play. Sey. Hang not thy head ; bid them defiance all From thy safe fortress in thy husband's arms. Yea, husband, sirs, I said — and she my wife, My wife and chiefest glory. King. What ! again ! Confession on both sides, and made in presence Of divers well-reputed witnesses. Multorum oculis testatior. [To Salisbury.] Said I not? said I not? Sa/. The best device Since Solomon gave judgment, worthy none Save Israel's wise majesty and yours. King. I'm not so doited yet but I can spread A net to catch a bird, or e'en maybe sctiNE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 33 A pair, as now. Come, good my lords, with me ; We'll leave them limed awhile, till we devise A way to clip their wings. Ara. [Throwing herself on her knees before the King. Pity and pardon ! King, cousin, pardon, pardon. O have mercy ! King. Guards, watch them still ; we presently will send . Word of our pleasure, voluntatis nostra. Come, sirs, and when our bus'ness is despatched I wish it may be supper-time, for, troth. Not Solomon could keep his wit alive Upon an empty stomach ; empty stomachs Are the vacuum by Nature most abhorred. \_Exeunt all but Seymour, Arabella, and Guards, the latter remaining at the back part of the stage. ■Ara. [Still kneeling.'] O pardon, pardon ! Sey. Nay, abase thyself No longer ; he is gone, and heeds thee not. Ara. Gone — ay, 'tis so, and we twain left behind, Pris'ners awaiting doom. O 'twas my fault, Because I could but ask with parrot tongue Mercy and pardon, as the starving beggar, Even because he starves, can only speak The bare word ' bread;' could I have found a way To show him what is here, and all my need, I know he must have pitied. Sey. Is it then So dark within thy heart ? For me, I am glad D 34 ARABELLA STUART. [act ii. To have called thee wife before them all, and proud. Thou'rt mine, I thine ; that we have each to each Belonged, not Heav'n itself can now undo — And how should all be dark ? Ara. Not all dark yet — I have thee still. But if a bitt'rer pain Be near, that is to make this pain seem joy, This hour an hour stol'n out of Paradise ? Was it a dream ? or was not one here now Who said that we should part ? Sey. One who hath power To sunder us awhile, but not our loves. Nay, look not so affrighted ; it may be The word was but to trap thee ; it may be They will devise a way of punishment Other than parting. Ara. Ay, perchance ; why not ? To imprison, or to banish — these are sounds Harsh enough grating in the ears of most To stand for punishment. O if 'twere so ! Might we be banished, but together still- Denied the court Ah me ! what joy were there ! To 'scape from spying eyes and whisp'ring tongues. And glitt'ring glare cold as the winter moon Mirrored in water ; these to leave behind If you grudged not ? Sey. How should I ? Ara. And to live In some fair spot of earth, where nodding boughs SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 35 Should kiss our casement, scatt'ring diamonds Of sunshine through the shade, and the fresh morn Come daily laden with the new sweet breath Of wild flowers op'ning, and the air be made Alive with music of soft-twitt'ring birds. Who ne'er should learn to fear us. Were not this A life foretasting Heaven ? Sey. Ay, so fair That all our hope must lie in letting none Divine how fair, for in such life no flavour Of punishment were left. Ara. Ah ! now again You set me fearing. Yea, 'tis true, for me No punishment could be save one, and that Hardest of all. Look, yonder comes e'en now Our judge to bring us sentence. Hold my hand. Doth it not seem to you that once before In some dim past we have lived through this hour ? Sey. So well-nigh could I deem — perchance because What now we suffer strikes so deeply down That 'tis become already part of us. Familiar ere the time, and charged with tones Of past and present blended. Re-enter Salisbury, with Sir James Croft. Ara. Pray you, sir. What says the king? But ere you speak I know He will be merciful. 36 ARABELLA STUART. [act ii. Sal. So truly, madam, He shows himself; and though you have to him In disobedience and unthankfulness Abounded, yet to you he tempers still Justice with grace and favour. Ara. I knew well ! Sal. As plain appears in this, that all your sen- tence For your so grievous fault is that forthwith You journey north to Durham, there to lodge In the bishop's house and rev'rend custody — You see, an easy penance. And meantime You are commended to this gentleman, Good Sir James Croft, who shall have charge of you. And all that to your journey doth pertain. Croft. Your ladyship shall ever find in me Your servant and the king's. Ara. Sirs, I am ready To follow where you will, to come or go As to you seems most fitting, stand or sit, Be merry or keep silence at command, So that the king, and you, and all that see. Shall say my name is but another word To signify obedience. But with me Unto this bishop's house so fair away My husband too is sent ; is this not so ? Sal.'-^'h.vA if 'twere so, 'twere hardly reason, madam. SCENE I.J ARABELLA STUART. 37 He hath much offended, and his sentence is That for his gross presumptuous revolt, In having dared against the king's command With one of the king's blood to join himself, He sh.'iU be sent where he shall have full time For pond'ring and repentance — to the Tower. Ara. The Tower —he to the Tower ! And where- fore he ? If to be cousin to the King is fault, The fault is mine, not his, and unto me Should both the honour be and penalty. Not he then to the Tower ; you have mista'en. Sal. I have but said as I was bid to say. And unsay can I not. Ara. He to the Tower ! Sey. Pray you, sweet wife, be patient. Ara. I will speak — This must be changed. Nay, nay, the Tower for me, Who have offended most, and who indeed In dreams am oft its habitant — not for him ; He must go free, or banisshed at the worst. O let me see the king ! this time I'll make My prayers so strong that they shall move his heart Perforce to pity. Sal. Madam, nought avails. The king commands, and subjects must obey. So therefore with no further tarrying Make your farewells, and part. Ara. Part! And the Tower 38 ARABELLA STUART. [act ii. Awaiting him ! Awhile ago I thought That Fate in all her armoury of ills Had none that so could pierce me to the soul As this of parting ; but I now am taught That even parting may be joined with worse. Thou to the Tower ! Then what for me, my love ? Sey. I charge thee, by how much I am thy love. Let me not see thee thus ; that look of thine Is as a murder done upon my heart. Give me another mem'ry of thy face, And help me to endure. Ara. I will, I will. Yea, even smile. O trust me, there is nought For thee I could not do. Sey. Remember well While life and love are left is hope left too — Hope that hath oft tired out the bitt'rest wrath Of Fortune and of kings, and brought those home In gladness who in sorrow had gone forth. So may it be with us. Ara. Ay, and so shall. O how could I forget ? What ! shall I tell How full I am of folly ? in my mind There went but even now a foolish thought That if I lost the refuge of thine arms. And found not one with death, I must go mad. But thus I'll think no more ; thou hast made me sure That we shall meet again. Sey. And till that time SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 39 Cherish thyself for me— rememb'ring still Thou art my only wealth, which thou must guard, And give me safely back. Ara. I will ; being thine Makes me a thing of value to myself. Sal. Are you not ready ? Sey. Ay, my lord. I know There's something still unsaid that I would say — But so 'twould be had I a thousand years To bid farewell in. Must I leave her thus, In keeping of strange hands, with no friend near To speak in a known voice ? Sal. I have sent to fetch One of her women hither, who will give All fitting aid and comfort. See, she comes. Enter one ^Arabella's Gentlewomen. Gen. Alack ! what news is this that I have heard? my sweet mistress ! kind and gentle lady, So gentle and so kind I hoped that harm On you should ne'er have power. Sey. Be tender with her When I am gone, but this I know you will ; You love her well, and should. \To Croft.] And you, good sir. Will be a friendly gaoler; in your face 1 can read pity. Sal. Pray you, linger not. 40 ARABELLA STUART. [act ii. Sey. Farewell, thou that art joined to me so close No absence can prevail to make thee less Than still a part of me, and still mine own. Ara. Husband, farewell. \Exit Seymour, with Guards.] And now I am alone. \Sinks fainting into the arms of Gentlewoman. The Curtain falls. END OF ACT II. SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 41 ACT III. SCENE I. The Garden of a Cottage near Barnet. Salisbury and Croft discovered. Sal. She knows that I await her ? Croft. Ay, my lord, And will come forth anon to speak with you Here in the garden, where the air may breathe Some strength into her weakness. Sal. Fair excuse For yet another minute of delay. Croft. Nay, she hath been more ailing than you deem, But now methinks is mended far enough That you shall find in her both power and will To be obedient. Sal. And 'tis not too soon. What ! well-nigh three moons wasted since the time She set forth northward— the shy buds of spring Changed to full-bosomed flowers that spread themselves To court the sun's hot kiss — and still no more Than an hour's ride from London ! Croft. Good my lord. 42 ARABELLA STUART. [act hi. Had you beheld how desp'rate was her state When this so sudden sickness fell on her, You would have known that you might send her corse To Durham, not herself. Sal. Well, well, you see. We gave full time of healing and of rest Unto the weary flesh, which, as I judge. The impatience of her spirit had tired out. But now I tell you, sir, the king is bent To endure no more delay ; yea, he hath sworn To Durham she shall go, though she but make A mile of road a day ; and this command I now am come to lay on you and her. Croft. And I dare promise you shall find her nought But patient and obedient, for if once There was a mutinous spirit in her blood, It seems the fever hath consumed it quite. And left her mild and meek as a dumb thing That, after struggling, knows it must be led. Lo you where now she comes. Enter Arabella, leaning on the arm of her Gentlewoman. Sal. Most noble lady, Take my best homage. Ara. Sir, I greet you well. Gtn. Nay, prayyou, madam, sit; I know your strength Better than you yourself. SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 43 Ara. Kind friend — too kind To be to me long left. My lord, they said It was your will to see me. Sal. Madam, ay — And tell you from the king how much he joys To know your health so mended by the time Of rest accorded here, which in his goodness He hath suffered to be stretched from week to week, Against his first design. But now he deems That this sweet country air hath med'cined you Enough to take your broken journey up. Therefore commands that with no more excuse You shall set forth to-morrow. Ara. I care not ; I am ready when you will. Sal. I much rejoice, As will the king, to find your ladyship So patient in your mood. Ara. What should I be ? Impatience hath burnt out, and left behind An ash you may call patience if you will. I have tried all ways — besought for liberty As for a boon, and asked it as my due Under the law of England, which methought Left liberty to all the innocent. But I am placed too high for law to right, Too low for prince to favour, so am held Inextricably in the net of Fate, For Fate and kings to work their will upon. 44 ARABELLA STUART. [act hi. Sal. Whate'er hath taught you patience, I am glad To see the lesson learned, and will take back To London and the king a fair report Of you and your obedience. Ara. London, ay? In London is the Tower. O tell me, sir, How doth it fare with him ? my husband — say. Sal. He is well, madam. Be not so disturbed. Ara. But in the Tower — still in the Tower? Sal. Most su) L ; Still in the Tower. I will not longer stay, Since thus my presence moves you. Sir James Crof-i , I charge you see all set in readiness Against your morrow's journey. Croft. I will go E'en now, my lord, and order each thing so That nought shall fail. Dear madam, pardon me ; No choice is mine. Sal. Come then; you have much to do. Thus humbly I salute your ladyship. \Exit, with Croft. Gen. Beseech you droop not thus. Ara. What have I done That you must chide ? I weep not, neither sigh ; Then wherefore trouble m,e ? Gen. 'Twere better weep Than sit so stony. Will you not look up And take some joy in this sweet summer day That smiles so fair about you ? SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 45 Ara. O I know That the sun shines and that the flowers are out, And butterflies on wing and birds in song, And the air gay with flutter of green leaves. Yea, ev'rywhere young summer triumphing With ensigns full unfurled. But what are these More unto me than as the lifeless corse Of what was beauteous once, if he sees not, He whose partaking presence was the soul Of all I e'er deemed fair ? And he, they say. Still makes his darksome lodging in the Tower. Gen. Think not of that. Ara. What shall I think of else? He in the Tower, walled up as in a grave. And I to journey on beneath blue skies Further and further from him day by day. Grudging each step of way, yet journeying still. Till I shall deem the space that now seems far Was heav'nly nearness. O might I have died Here where I lay so sick, and where perchance They might have let him come when I was dead To see me laid in earth ! Gen. Nay, who shall say ? All may not be so desp'rate as you judge. Be of good heart. You have friends who love you well, And peradventure labouring even now To do you service. Ara. Friends I have, 'tis true. But weaker and of less account the more 46 ARABELLA STVART. [act hi. That they are friends of mine. Gen. Yet doth great love Oft render weakness strong. More would I say If I feared not to make you hope too much. Ard. How mean you.? hope ! \Musi€heard^ Hark there ! what music's that ? Gen. What should it be ? 1 remember now. The daughter of the farmer in the vale Was to be wed this morn ; this is the way That they must pass to church, but sure I think They might have had more rev'rence for this house Than wake its quietness thus noisily. Ara. What ! would you have me be a cloud to make The joys of others dark, being dark myself? May Heav'n forbid. Music. Enter in procession Rustic Youths and Maidens, then a Bride with her Father and Mother, other Youths and Maidens following. As they pass along by the garden-fence, they perceive Arabella, and uncover; the music stops suddenly. Friends, wherefore have you let This silence fall upon you ? See you then Aught here that you need fear ? Father. {Aside to the others.] 'Tis the great lady From London — she herself. [Aloud.] An't please your grace, • We had not thought to pass you by so close, SCENE I.J ARABELLA STUART. 47 Or we had held our peace — for well we know That we are but mean folk. Ara. And therefore dread The presence of my mightiness ? but 'faith I would not do you hurt e'en if I could. Is't you that are the father of the bride ? Father. If so it please you, lady — but indeed Offence there was none meant. Ara. You have cause to boast, If I may judge of the face she holds so low, Of a right fair daughter. Hither, pretty maid. Hither to me. Undo the gate, good friend, And make her come more near. Father. Go, my girl, go ; Great folk must have their will. \He opens the gate, and the Bride advances timidly. Ara. What ! still thy face Bent down by weight of blushes ! It would seem Thou art ashamed of how much thou art glad. Nay, never shame of being glad, but thank Heaven that makes thee so. Thou lov'st him well Who waits for thee to-day ? for if thou dost, Glad thou must be, I know. Father. See, she would die Ere answer yea — a peevish shame-faced thing. Now, lady, who would think that she who holds Her mouth so tight pursed up hath faced me out, Me and her mother too, these twelve months past. That she would have but him, none else but him ? 4& ARABELLA STUART. [act iii. Ara. Was't so ? Father. Ay, was it ; we had thought to find A better for her. Bride. Better is there none. Father. You hear, you hear ? Nay, if you'd know her mind. You need but rail at him. Ara. And for nought else Than that she loved, and that her love was strong, She hath prevailed at last ? Father. Why, who could bear To see a piece of one's own .flesh and blood Pine to her grave for love, when he she loves Is a good youth and honest ? Let her be As foolish as she will, 'tis still our child Whom we are bound to care for. Ara. This it is To have a father and a mother lisft To tend the life they gave — mine both were ta'en Ere I could say I had or I had not. But see, with idle curious questioning I keep thee from thy waiting happiness ; I will not more. Go, child, and with thee take This purse of gold, to pay thee for the minutes I have made thee lose of joy. Bride. O lady, lady. What have I done for this ? Ara. No need for thanks ; Gold will not make thee happier than thou art — SCKNE I.J ARABELLA STUART. 49 Thou, on thy way to wed the man thou lovest, With father, mother, kindred, smiling friends, All standing by to bless. Give me thy hand To say farewell. Lo ! it is warm, and warms My cold one with its heat ; but of the gladness That is within thee, and almost as near As is this hand I hold-^^^So now go forth, And leave me here behind. Bride. Madam Ara. Farewell ; Not a word more. Ho ! let the music sound. And all be joyful as it was before. Made not one whit less joyful by my means. Come — music — I command ; if such as I May give command for aught. Now gO your ways, With my good wishes following ; it may be For you they will have power. \Mtisic. The Bride and her Father make profound obeisances, and exeunt with the procession. I oft have heard How the bright day with golden outstretched wings Doth warm and cherish other lands while ours Lies dark and cold and naked to the night — And now I understand. \The sound of a whistle is heard. Gen. O hear you that ? Lady, look up ; who knows what cheerful news May be at haiid? \The sound is repeatedl\ What ! there again ! yea, sure £ 50 ARABELLA STUART. [act hi. It must be he. Ara. What mean you ? Gen. [Going to the side of the stage and beckoning. And he 'tis — Come; all is safe. [7(7 Arabella.] Madam, you know I said You had friends who worked for you, and here is one — Your trusty servant Crompton. Ara. ... He indeed? Gen. He sent me secret word that he would watch His time to come, but this from you I hid Lest aught should hinder. £nter Crompton. Ara. O my oldest friend ! Cromp. My own dear lady ! What ! so sorrow- changed ? Ara. Not changed to you. So are you come to bid Farewell before I part ? for part they say I must to-morrow — to that dreary north, Where all things will be strange, and banishment Begin in earnest. Cromp. So in truth you must, If nothing come between. \To Gentlewoman.'] You have not yet Told her of aught? Gen. , I feared to let her know Till all were ripe, lest of too high a hope The ruin should o'erwhelm her. SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 51 Ara. Hope ! again That word to me ! O tell me ! tell me quick ! The king hath turned to mercy ? What ! not thus ? Cromp. Not thus indeed. But, lady, there are those Have sworn you shall be free in his despite. Ara. In his despite ! O who are they who rate The strength of kings so lightly ? Cromp. One of them. Foremost in power to aid, is your good aunt, My Lady Shrewsbury, who on this emprise Is bent so strongly that she sends you here Half of her fortune turned to gold and jewels, \Showing a packet which he draws from his bosom. To help you to deliv'rance. Ara. Doth she so ? O kindest kinswoman ! But she knows not How harder far achievement is than hope. Cromp. Yet not, maybe, so hard as you account. For here stand we, your servants, with our lives Ready to attest our faith ; and by a chance Most helpful to our purpose it falls out The watch about you set, that at the first You found so close and strict and full of eyes. Is day by day grown slacker, lulled to sleep By the sickness which these long weeks past hath seemed Your sternest gaoler, but which thus perchance May prove to have been your friend, making those sluggish 52 ARABELLA STUART. [act hi. Who were so wakeful once. Gen. And in the hour Wherein we Speak they most are off their guard, Being busied with the careful ordering Of your new journey northward ; on this task Is your keeper no* gone forth, and, as I hope, When he returns will find his pains made vain. Aj-a. What means this all ? That I am to be free ! Free ! and my husband not ! Cromp. Your husband too — My life upon't — he too — and both to 'scape Where you shall meet, and dwell with none to part. Ara. Free !^— he and I together ! Cromp. Even so — And I now come the bearer of a message From him to yoU. Ara. From him to me ! Crofnp. 'tis this-^ That he, and friends of his, have for his flight Out of the stony keeping of the Tower Set all in order, and he looks to-night To be out of bondage. Ara. He ! this very night ! Cromp. Ay, out of bondage, and awaiting you In a certain inn upon the river shore Which with my guidance you shall find ; hard by A bark lies ready hired, whose spreading sails Shall bear you both to France and liberty And life-long joy, so but you have the strength SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 53 To keep this tryst he gives. Ara. O never doubt ; Lead me, lead quick— ^I am ready. Cromp. I entreat, Keep you more ealm, lest prodigal you spend On mere expectancy the little store Of bodily force ^hich sickness spares you still, And which you now iriust use. Ara. Fear not for that ; My sickness was the sickness named despair ; Now am I well, and being well am strong. See here how firm I stand, how firm I walk. What ! am I not of England's royal blood ? At least I have been told so oft enough— That is, of blood which never yet ran cold In a great task or peril ; nor shall now. If well I know myself. Cromp. O this is good ! Then, dearest lady, with what speed you may. Prepare you to come forth ; a brief way hence Our horses stay, with fretting hoofs that long To trample distance down, and which, more chp.fed By waiting, shall to London and the Thames Full quickly bear us ; for with you shall go We twain, to share your journey and to cheer With all due aid and service. Ara. Surely none Had e'er such friends as I. But O make haste — Which way, which way ? 54 ARABELLA STUART. [act hi. Cromp. Nay, pardon, madam, first 'Tis needful ■with some change of outward form To hide your proper semblance, so to pass Disguised through all the perils that await. Therefore, I pray you, do not scorn to don The attire that in this wallet you will find — A page's garb — ^unseemly much, I know, But e'en for that the likeliest to our end. Ara. Must it be so ? But I'll grudge not to do Aught that shall bring me nearer unto him. \To Gentlewoman.] Beseech you come, sweet wench, and help to make As much a man of me in outer show As I would be in soul. O you shall see A gallant youth, I warrant you — a youth That shall defy the world. Gen. So please you, madam. Go to your chamber ; I will follow straight. \^To Crompton.J Good master, come this way; I'll pour you out A cup of wine shall brace your heart for aught That lies before. Cremp. 'Faith, I will not deny. \_Exeunt into the home. Music. Re-enter the wedding procession, returning from church, the Bride led by her Bridegroom. Bride. Alack ! she is gone. And I who longed so much SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 55 That you should see her ! Father. Nay, now, as I think, Thy longing rather was that she should see How stout a lad thou hadst brought back from church. Bride. Father ! Such foolishness ! But is't not pity She should be gone ? for though so high and great I have heard her called, she looked so kind withal That fear her could I not. Father. How would it be Were we to sound beneath her window here A merry stave or twain ? she seemed to have Good liking for our music. Bride. And perchance 'Twill bring her forth. Let it be so, I pray. The Youths and Maidens of the procession advance towards the house, and sing. Song. O bright is the spring-time when meadows are green, And glossy buds bursting and breaking, And blue skies lie laughing the light clouds between At the world from long slumber up-waking. But of all the year round there's no season for me Like the season of love, whate'er season it be. O gay is the summer when flowers are unrolled, And trees in green bravery flaunting. ARABELLA STUART. [acj hi. And cornfields all dimpling and rippling with gold. As though earth of her riches were vaunting. But of all the year round there's no season for mg Like the season of love, whate'er season it be.. O fair is the autumn when reaping is done, And the forest is redd'ning and yellowing, And in mild misty beams of the dreamy-faced sun The loose-dangling apples are mellowing. But of all the year round there's no season for pne Like the season of love, whate'er season It be. O blithe is the winter when lights are aglow. And fire-faggots crackling and leaping, And folk within doors made more cheery to know How the vrind the white snow-drifts is heaping. But of all the year round there's no season for me Like the season of love, whate'er season it be. Re-enter Crompton, /row the house. Crpmp. Kind friends, for your sweet i??ysic ^nd good will The Lady Arabella sends you thanks ; But, being from long sickness newly risen. She is tired, and fain would rest. Father. And sir, be sure. Full loth we were to do her aught but good. SCENE!,] 4^ABELLA STUART. 57 Come, }Doys and girl?, make haste; while here you stay No quietness can be. Cromp. Such sense she hath Of thi§ your friendship shown, that as her friends She entreats you in your prayers to think of her, And ask of Heav'f) that it may geiid her ease. Bride. this we will, doubt not — the kindest lp,dy That ever yet I looked op ! Father. So say I, Now all get heijce, as softly as you may, \The procession forms again, (ind departs. When all have disappeared, Crompton advances to the house. Cromp. Madam, here are pone left ; you may come forth. Re-enter from the house Arabella, iii boy's clothes, and the Gentlewoman, cloaked and veiled. O you are palcT-r-too pale. Ara. Indeed it seems This strange o'er bold apparel doth but serve To cow with contrast my top womanish heart. So many crowding images of peril. Unseen before, rise up on ev'ry side. Each frighting me with threat of separate ill. You bore in mind to ask for me the prayer? Of those kind simple folk ? Cromp. I asked them, madam, And be assured they are yours. But O is this 58 ARABELLA STUART. [act hi, The valiancy you promised ? Think what 'tis This enterprise, to happy ending brought, Shall have achieved for you, and for another More dear to you than you. Ara. 'Tis too much thinking Of that, which makes me weak, as the gamester's hand Shakes at the last great throw. But you shall find I'll keep my promise yet. I will be brave, As in this garb I should be — yea, will play My part so well that I shall trick perchance Not only men that look, but Fortune's self To take me for another than I am, And show me favour. Well, are you not ready ? Where do those horses wait ? Cromf. This way, good madam, So you be pleased to come. Ara. [To Gen,tlewoman.\ ' Give me your arm. Nay, I forgot, 'tis I should lead forth you — The hardy squire be guide to the feeble dame. Lo, that fits better. O I'll grow in time A courteous cavalier. Gen. Alack ! you shake As a snowdrop in the wind. Ara. And if I shake 'Tis with impatience only, trust me well. Lead on, lead on — and Heaven's pity wait On one whose need of pity is so great. \The Curtain falls. End of Act III. SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 59 ACT IV. SCENE I. The Deck of a Ship. Sailors discovered hoisting a Sail. Arabella (attired as at the end of Act III.), with Crompton and Gentlewoman, sitting a little apart. Sailors. \Singingi\ Each man for all. And all together — Pull, mates, pull — And fair shall fall In foulest weather. Pull, mates, pull, ist Sail. So, that sits bravely now ; 'twill do, 'twill do. Come, boys ; there's more work aft. Ara. Nay, speak I will. [Detaining one of the Sailors, while his comrades withdraw. Pray you, a word. You kept strict watch all night, As you were bid, on the river craft we passed. And on the banks, and saw no signal given — r 6o ARABELLA STUART. [act iv. No signal from a friend, who stood and looked, Breasting the brackish wind with outstretched arms That pleaded for our help, while we sailed on And left him there to wonder ? Sail. Good faith, no ; Though we watched well — as truly we would do Ev'rything well that we were bid to do By a so bounteous-hearted, bounteous-handed Young master as your honour. Ara. And we now Are far upon our way — ay, quite have left The English earth, and all it yet may hold Of known and dear, behind ? Sail. Why, as I take it, We now stand half across, and with fajr wind Should sleep this night at Calais, but the breeze Being so slack and idle as you see. What time our captain looks to come to port I know not, nor perchance he more than I. Ara. Here, friend, \giving him money] and when you see your captain next Beseech you send him hither. Sail. Sir, I will ; Ai}d were more glad to serve you for your gifts Than others for their hire. [£xi(. Ara. So far already From EngHnd and froni him, with this drear waste Of glitt'ring blue between \ he knew not, Nor knew I yesterday, he had a wife SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 6i So false and cruel, her own good to seek He being left behind. I should have cleaved To the trysting-place he gave till in the earth I had ta'en root, ere let myself be drawn To part without him. Cromp. Nay, but, madam, think ; When at the trysting-place you found him not, And waited long in vain, 'twas plain to sense The meeting that you there had hoped was missed. And to be sought elsewhere, for had you stayed To be by following foes tracked out and ta'en, You must have giv'n it up for evermore. Gen. 'Tis like enough, dear lady, you shall find Whom then your eyes desired and could not see. In France already waiting, and the first To give you welcome. Ara. Ay, so now you say To lead me on, as yesterday you said, To lead me on, he lay in wait for us In the river further down ; but 'twas not so^' I watched all night for sign as well as they, And there came none ; thus was I by false friends Tricked to forsake him. O forgive, forgive ; Nor think me too unthankful for your love ; I know how great it is, but yet I fear More great for me than him. Cromp. In serving you 'Tis shown to both alike. How were't for him If, being 'scaped himself, the tidings came 62 ARABELLA STUART. [act iv. That, doubting of his fortune with no cause, You had cast away your own, and left him lost In a dark loveless void called liberty, As in a spacious house of stately build, But bare and empty-echoing ? And so well His scheme of flight was laid that scarce I think Achievement can have failed, albeit it seems Some chance hath hindered him from giving you The meeting th'at he promised. Ara. In good sooth You say, and not from pity, that 'tis like He now is not a pris'ner ? Cromp. In good sooth, And that the greatest foe his hopes have had Hath been yourself, by the long tarrying You made to await him, and his truest friends We who at last constrained you to depart. Ara. O then I will be patient. Cromp. Madam, look. Here comes the captain ; pray you, now, remember More what you seem to be than what you are. Ara. Speak you for me. Cromp. I will, but, faith, scarce know What you would have me say. Ara. And all I know Is that I pine for news he cannot give. SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 63 Enter Captain. Cramp. Good-morrow, sir. My master, and his sister, Have sent to ask you how our journey fares, And when 'tis like to end. Capt. Why, as for that, 'Twould have been nearer ended than it is Had they not made me hither and thither tack. And tire the wind with waiting for their friend, Until, from being fresh and full of work, It dropped asleep as now — and the sea too, Which is indeed to the upper elements The clerk who says amen, and fain must fit His holiday with theirs. Ara. Then peradventure Before our course is done we yet may light On him we look for, like ourselves becalmed — Forget not well to watch. Capt. Ay, ay, fear not ; I would I were your friend, to have a friend Who took such thought for me as you for him, And waked all night to fret and chafe and long. As a maiden for her sweetheart. Cromp. You must see, My master having with his friend agreed To ride o'er France in company, the sport They looked for in the journey much is marred By this untoward beginning. 64 ARABELLA STUART. [act iv. Capt. O I see They are a pair of friends who ill can part. But what of that, young sir ? we who are ftieii, And strong and lusty and stout, as you atid I, Big-fisted, brawny-fleshed, we must hold up Our hearts in spite of crosses, not set women Pattern of womanishness, as, with your leave, You set your sister here, fot by my troth You are more pale than she. Ara. Perchance because The air is something cold. Capt. Cold ! warm you then With a wrestling-bout, as thtfs, if you scorn not To play with me a match. Come, my young squire. Now put forth all your mettle. Come, stand to 'f. Cromp. Pray you, sir, cease ; tny master's not in mood For idle sport. Capt. Nor I in mood to try My strength against a woman's, think it n6t. What ! touched I there the quick ? And could you deem That I could deem so dainty-white a hand, Finished by Nature with such delicate wotk Of blue-veined tracery, had at the wrist Its base degenerate ending in a man ? No, I trow not ; yet is your hand a marfS, Or will be soon, when it is giVn in gift To the friend you long for so. Ara. Sir, sir SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 65 Capf. How now ! Pant not so hard ; you'll fare no worse for me. I did but speak to show you I can take My soundings in deep water, and spy well The master is a mistress, and those twain, The lady-sister and the serving-man, Your servants both alike, in like degree Of distance standing — ^and the friend you seek The other half still wanting to the pair. Nay, nay, now, why so frighted ? on my life, I'm well inclined to lovers, and ere this Have lent my sails to help them out of pain. That is, the one to the other. Cromp. She hath borne So much of late that ev'ry breath that blows Wakes mem'ry of past ill and fear of new. But see, she trusts you now, and smiles again. Capt Why, that is well — I warrant her all things Will fall as she would have them ; folk in love, I oft have seen, come ever safe to port ; For Cupid whom they serve is as a wag Who puffs his cheeks and sputters wind and rain, But e'en by reason of his waggishness Will do no deadly harm. I have helped those Harder to help than lovers. Ara. So ? And who ? Capt. Those whom the state hath looked askance upon. There is the pinch of pinches, then the time F 66 ARABELLA STUART. [act iv. To keep the hand on the helm— no blithesome breeze To brag and bounce and bluster in yoiu' teeth, Only a little cloud out of the sea That rises, ever dark'ning. But for you, Be of good cheer ; you lovers are too trifling For Fortune long to keep her spite against. Enter a Sailor. Well, well ! what would you have ? Sail. Look, sir, a ship- A ship to windward, pressing on our track, With signals up to bid us stay our course. Ara. O then 'tis he at last ! Capt. Not so, not so ; You see, 'tis a king's ship ; and sure enough Would speak with us, but why 'tis hard to know. , Ara. A king's ship, say you ? ■Capi. Ay,- but where's the harm ? We carry nought forbid ; when they have found Their error out, they will not hinder long. Bring to, and wait. Ara. No, no ! On — onward still ! [To Crompton.] O tell ! I have no breath. Cromp. , By all the love That e'er you bore to sister or to wife, Mother, or tender daughter, hold you now Your course ; by us you shall be tenfold fee'd, And thousandfold by Heaven. SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 67 Capt. Stands it thus ? 'Tis worse than I had deemed. Well, all I can To serve you will I do, but if my pains Will aught avail I know not ; they that follow I fear are better trimmed than we to catch What little wind there stirs. And then king's ships Have with them oft a certain loud-voiced way That makes them heard from far, and, heard, obeyed. \A shot is heard. So, hark you there. Not near enough as yet To do us hurt, but like to be full soon. Ara. O onward still ! Save ! save ! Capt. Ay, if I can. Poor wench, with all my soul I pity thee. What ho ! boys, give not in. Keep up your hearts. And eVry sail full stretched. \A volley of firing is heard. More Sailors appear. \st Sail. How ! shall we sink Only to pleasure you ? Bring to ! strike flag ! Otlur Sailors. Ay, ay, well said ! strike flag ! Capt Why then, strike flag. And have your wa)' — for, lady, on my word. There's no way else ; to stand another round Were but to play at ninepins with our lives. Ara. I was to blame, but I forgot that life Could still be dear to any. I am glad The pain of hope is o'er — for well I knew What was to be the end, and now 'tis come. And I have nought to do but rest and wait, 68 ARABELLA STUART. [act iv. And cease from strife, being conquered. \Seats herself. Capt. Lo you there ! Descr)dng that we yield, they send a boat Wherewith to reach us sooner, which e'en now Glides from the tall ship's shadow — ay, the oars Will make short work with distance — and, you see, Brimful of armdd men. Cromp. Alas ! alas ! This stroke hath crushed her quite. Gen. Madam, take heart. Ara. You pity me too much ; there is no need ; To me 'tis all as though I but looked on, And saw this evil on another fall — Save that methinks another in this plight Would move me to more feeling. Capt. Yea, I said Their oars would bring them fast. Be ready, boys, To heave them down a rope — 'faith, would we dared Haul them aboard by the necks. Gen. What ! do they come ? O lady, lady, hide ; it yet may be They shall not find you. ^ra Have you ever heard Of a hiding-place so dark and still and safe That Fate found not the prey she once had marked ? And me she long hath marked, and now the time To strike me down is come. Capt. So there, they touch ; SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUAR7. 69 Ay, for the weight they cany they climb well. Yet well or ill, should not the lubberly brood Be boarding us, were we but armed as they. [7]i!;f7«««^ ^(7 Arabella.] How goes it now ? Nay, be not so dismayed. Gen. She will not hide. But O betray her not. Capt. Betray ! not I ; as a fish I will be dumb — Albeit, I fear, of no more use to help. See, see, they come. Gen. [To Crompton.J Stand you in front with me, And hide her while we may. Enter an Officer, with Guards. Off. Which is the captain here ? Capt. An't please you, sir, Captain am I. [Aside.] Would I were master too ! Off. Then from this warrant will you see I have power To make search for, and seize wherever found, The person of the king's near kinswoman. The most illustrious Lady Arabella, Who, having first offended by transgression Against his high command, hath now dared break From his just durance. We have cause to deem She is here with you embarked. Capt. By Heav'n above. Then know you more than I ; so great a dame Is far too great for passenger of mine. Ara. [Rising and iomin^ forward.] Enough, enough j 70 ARABELLA STUART. [act iv. I thank you, but here let All bootless torment end. Sir, I am she, The Lady Arabella that you seek. Who, were I what by attire I ape to be, Had sold to-day my liberty as dear As English prince did ever. But I came Into the world for sorrow, and, that sorrow Should have on me full power, ordained a woman ; So therefore do I yield. Off. And on my part, Madam, I arrest you, and declare you here The pris'ner of the king. Ara. Do what you will ; To me 'tis now all one. Off. Ere more be said, Tell me — What of the other whom we seek, Your husband, and partaker of your fault In disobedience and in flight alike ? Answer and tell forthwith. Ara. You ! is it you Ask news from me ? 'Scaped then and free ! Is't true You know not of him ? Off. Nought but that last night He broke from out the keeping of the Tower, And fled we know not whither ; 'tis for you To say the rest. Ara. And I can say but this. That you have made me glad — ^yea — O how glad ! SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 71 More glad a thousandfold than e'er you thought To make me sorry. Pardon me, sweet Heaven, I see that still you live, and still keep watch Even for such as I. Off. If true it be The other pris'ner whom we seek hath 'scaped, I am well pleased it makes you so content, Since I have now in charge to see you borne Unto the Tower, that Tower whence he is fled. But which for you may prove a stricter ward Than it hath been for him. I pray you, madam. Be patient of the escort of these guards,. Who now must lead you thither. \Guards surround Arabella. Ara. What of that? Welcome the Tower, welcome all things for me Mine is the triumph still, fnr he is free. [The Curiam falls. End of Act IV. 72 ARABELLA STUART. [act v. ACT V. SCENE I. A Room in the Tower. Arabella discovered with a Woman- Attendant. The latter is at work; Arabella sits gazing before her, with her work lying in her lap. Ara. So weary — O so weary ! These long days Wherein time hath no motion, and yet brings To me no rest — so many and so long ! \^To Attendant^ Since when, by the world's count, have I lived here ? Att. Madam, four years. Ara. Nay, nay, you mock me now ; 'Tis years agone since first you said four years. Att. By fullest reck'ning four years, and three moons. Ara. No more than that ! I do remember well In my other life to have heard them say the Tower Was grim and dull, and now I find it true. But he — he hath a better dwelling-place ; SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 73 In France the sun shines warm, and skies are blue, And the air brisk and blithesome, and all things Dancing with very brightness — is't not so ? Att. So have I heard, good madam. Ara. Ay, but still He thinks of me ; how pleasantly soe'er The broad blue freedom of the horizon smiles, He thinks of me ; I feel him mth me oft. I tell you, wench, he. loves me; will you doubt? But you perchance ne'er knew him. Att. Ne'er in sooth. Ara. 'Tis pity. Were you one of my old servants, AVho knew him well, we had held much discourse. But they and eVry face that once looked kind Are ta'en away, and I left quite alone. Att. Dear lady, say not so, for here am I, Albeit no more than a rough gaoler's wife, Will serve you all I can. Ara. O pardon me ; 'Tis true that you are kind, and true besides I give you much to bear with and to do, So ailing as I am, and in my brain Sometimes, I fear — though I know not if e'er You have noted it — a little wandering. Have you not thought it too ? Att. Nay, 'tis not wise To give such fancies harbour. Ara. Hark ! what noise ? Who comes ? O who ? 74 ARABELLA STUART. [act v. Enter a Warder. Att. 'Tis but my husband, madam. Ara. Ay, only he ? And by his face I see There is no mercy yet. O when will't come, The mercy that I ask ? I have asked so oft — And 'tis not much to ask ; a Httle mercy In God's name, that is all. Wiir. So please you, madam, The Lady Shrewsbury, being moved to hear How your health droops of late, hath sued for leave To see you for a space, and sends me now To warn you that she comes. Ara. She ! who is she ? War. The Lady Shrewsbury. Ara. Shrewsbury, said you? Ay, ay, 'tis so — my aunt — my good kind aunt — O what of her ? War. She comes to see you, madam, Having thereto got leave. Ara. Let it not be ; To find me here would vex her overmuch, Yea, make her chide perchance. Tell her to wait Till I be better lodged ; 'twill not be long. War. Why, madam, you forget ; she is herself Used to no better place ; here in the Tower She hath dwelt as long as you. Ara. And for what cause ? SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 75 I know now — for this ; [looking down at herselfl this is a cause Hath made full many suffer, and in prison Pine the long hours away. Ah ! how I pity - Them and all pris'ners else ! But I am glad He is not of them. Enter Lady Shrewsbury, conducted by another Warder, who remains present. Lady Sh. Well, poor cousin, well ! And so we meet at last— but, as I think. Too late for you to know me. Ara. Nay, not so ; 1 know you, and I love you — \kissing her'] for I see You are my good aunt still, and my kind friend. Though sometimes you are stem — ^but now with me You will be stem no more ? Lady Sh. I heard you ailed — But I knew not how much. Ara. 'Tis not my fault ; I've tried to be made well, and tried to live — O tried how hard to live ! for many a time Have I been tempted much, but would not yield, Knowing that to be cause of one's own death Is an unchristian thing, that might perchance Part me from him for ever. Lady Sh. Yet may grief Be murderous as hands ; so this poor face Doth all too clearly witness. 76 ARABELLA STUART. [act v. Ara. Seem I then So changed from what I was — changed it may be Beyond his knowledge ? This is what I feared — That he, who lives in the sunshine and the air, Will come with fresh cheeks back, and find mine sunk, And faded, and unworthy of his kiss. You are not changed — O teach me how to do That at our meeting he shall see me still The wife he left — for meet I know we shall One day — ^he said it. Lady Sh. You would be as 1 ? Then think not of your friends, but of your foes. Rejoicing while you languish ; and resolve To cheat them of their triumph. Ara. Is't indeed The way you take ? Lady Sh. Ay, and a way to man The poorest heart with strength. Why, child, ere now I might be free would I have stooped to sue Our Scotch schoolmaster's pardon ; but I bear A loftier soul within me, that, like iron. Hardens by being beat on. Be as I, Make front against your foes, and live and thrive. Ara. This were to live by hate, but love it is I need to make me live — love that I pine for As hunger doth for food and thirst for drink. And perish being shut from. Lady Sh. 'Tis e'en thus ; The strength that for defiance you should keep SCENK I.J ARABELLA STUART. 77 You waste in idle sorrow. Ara. Idle — yea — Too idle — I forgot. Give me my work ; Now will I make good speed. There's much depends Upon this work of mine — more than you think. Lady Sh. So, niece ? and what ? Ara. Look, 'tis a tapestry I broider for the king — pray you tell not. I sent it once before, but for his use 'Twas too sad-coloured, and he sent it back. Lady Sh. Ay, did he thus ? Ara. 'Tis true, and therefore now I work it o'er again with gayer threads. Till it be fit for a king's eye, and bright As a fair summer morning in the fields ; So must it surely please him, and if pleased He'll be my friend again, and all that's past Will seem an ugly dream. You see, you see What need I have for diligence. Lady Sh. [To ist Warder.] Is't oft So dark with her as now ? • ist War. E'en as to-day You find her, hath she been full long, unchanged. Saving that her physician makes report Her strength of late wanes faster. Lady Sh. And he gives No hope of better ? 1st War. Madam, none, but says She cannot long endure, seorched as she is 78 ARABELLA STUART. [act v. By a fierce fever always, that drinks up From hour to hour her life-blood. Att. Yet nathless Despair he cannot quite, since he has asked Of the lieutenant leave to bring to-day A doctor friend he hath, of special skill. He thinks, to soothe brain-sickness such as hers ; Pray Heav'n that so it prove ! This very hour He did appoint to come, and bring with him Her new physician. Lady Sh. And a wise physician He who can do her good must surely be. 2nd War. [Advancing to Lady Shrewsbury. Madam, the minutes here accorded you Are fully measured out ; so must I pray That unto your apartment you be pleased To make return forthwith. Lady Sh. Ha ! man ! — Be't so ; We pris'ners may not choose. Niece, fare you well ; I must not longer stay. Ara. {Still at J^r work.] Farewell, farewell ; I'd rise to do you honour, but you see The straits I'm in for time. I must work hard. Lady Sh. God pity you, poor child ! Nor can I think That He will let the king, and the king's son, And grandson, sit the safer on their throne, Or die the happier in their beds, because Thou art brought down to this. \Exit, with 2nd Warder. The i^t Warder also withdraws. scfiNE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 79 Ara. How meant she that ? For who hath ever Uved that could be made Happy because another is not so ? — And I am not ; although I seem to be, I am not really. Nay, with these thoughts Mine eyes grow dim, and cannot see to work ; Give me my lute ; I'll sing, and will not weep ; Much weeping hurts the eyes, as I have found. And I have need of mine. What joyous theme Shall I find out to sing of ? I have heard Nought is so pleasant in the world as love. \Takes up a lute, and tries to sing. Love, smiling love. What so happy and fair, Below or above, In the earih or the air ? \Breaks into bitter weeping."] I cannot help— indeed I cannot help. Att. Alas ! poor lady ! Come into your chamber, And rest you on your bed ; a little sleep Were your best med'cine. Ara. Yea, if I could sleep 'Twere well ; in sleep there is forgetting. Come ; I'll do whate'er you bid me ; you are kind. [Exeunt into an inner room. Re-enter' 1st Warder, ushering in Seymouk, disguised in a cloak and hood, and a Physician. War. This way, good master doctor. What! it seems 8o ARABELLA STUART. [act v. She's in her chamber ; shall I call her forth ? Fhy. Nay, nay, disturb her not ; there is no haste. And I will profit by the time we wait To unfold unto my fellow-doctor here, More fully than he knows them yet, the signs Of the malady wherewith he hath to cope. Therefore, beseech you, leave us. War. I obey, And will pray Heav'n your counsels may avail For the poor lady's good. \_Exit. Fhy. Sir, for God's love, Remember now your promise, and take heed You abandon nought of that feigned outward semblance Wherein you hide yourself; bethink you well That if suspicion once pierce through the rind Of your disguise unto the man you are, You will be wholly lost. Sey. Lost ! what is't then That you call lost ? Rhy. O trifle not. You know That if through any chink the tidings crept You dared draw breath again in English air, Ay, now stood here within the very walls. Not used to being mocked, of that same Tower You cheated once, the heavy-sounding doors Would close on you with thunder as of doom, To open nevermore. Sey. And if 'twere so. Would it fare worse with me than now with her? _ SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 8i Phy. You care not for yourself; but pray you show Some little heed for me, whom you have drawn In peril for your sake. You'll say perchance You bought my friendship, yet, believe me well, Not all the gold wherewith so bounteously You plied my poverty had moved me e'er To meddle in a bus'ness of such risk But that I pitied you with all my heart, And your great himger of beholding her. Repay me not with ruin. Sey. Have no fear ; I will be wary. You have pitied me. And I am thankful much. Phy. I could not choose But feel some pity of a husband's longing To look on his wife's face, the more that soon The time will have gone by that earthly power Can ever show it him. Sey. You are careful still To arm me for the worst. Phy. Because unarmed It may be you. would lack the strength to bear The sight of her so changed. Sey. So changed, think you, She will not know me ? Phy. Sir, sir, are you mad ? Heav'n send she know you not, for what she knows She is too distraught to have the art to hide ; So would her knowledge wreck us all. Is this G 82 ARABELLA STUART. [act v. The promise, that you gave me ? Sey. Ay, indeed — My promise — I forgot — but never doubt ; I will fulfil ; although the task be hard To look on her, and not to speak her name And call her mine—- but yet it shall be. done. Phy. It must be done, and truly for her sake No less than ours; for, sir, I tell you this, The elements that make her mortal part Do with such feebleness cohere, a breath Of perturbation might disjoin them quite. As wind blots out a bubble. Sey. Is it so ? I will heed well. Phy. And thus perchance may win Another and another sight of her, Nay, even so accustom her at last To see and hear you that your voice may serve To soothe her wearied sense, as a loved strain Of music may, albeit where first 'twas heard We cannot call to mind; so might you prove Indeed her best physician. But beware. Sey. I will, I will. Phy. And be in all things ruled As I give sign — to speak or hold your peace, E'en as by my observance of her mood I shall deem safe and fitting. Sey. Trust me well. O what comes here? She? she indeed? SCENE I.J ARABELLA STUART. 83 Phy. Stand back. Re-enter Arabella, followed by Attendant. Ara. No sleep for me — I shall be best at work. Ha ! who are these ? You, sir, I know- — but he — Who should he be ? Phy. Madam, the new physician I have found leave to bring. Friend, is't not so ? Sey. E'en so — your new physician. Ara. Speak again — Again ! I heard not clear. Phy. Madam, how now ! Why are you so disturbed ? this is not well ; What ! must I chide outright ? Ara. 'Tis that there goes A quiv'ring through my brain, as when the lightning Of a summer night throbs in and out, and shows. And takes away ere we have rightly seen. Will he not speak again ? Phy. Nay, on my word. If by a stranger's sight you are so moved, I must fain send him hence. Ara. No need, no need ! I'll govern well myself — O you shall see. Phy. So then sit down^ and tell me of your state. Sir, stand aloof, I pray, till to your presence She is grown more used. Madam, regard him not. And give your thoughts to me, if you indeed Would have me do you good. Ara. In truth I would — 84 ARABELLA STUART. [act v. And will obey you as a little child, So you will show me how I may be well ; For, sir, I must live— must ; I have in France A husband unto whom I am under bond. He bade me live ; 'twas his command I should ; He said I was his wealth, his only wealth, That I for him must guard. You scarce would think That I, so weak and broken as I am, Could be of any man the only wealth — But so indeed he said. What sound was that ? Phy. Nought, nought. I pray you, madam, look at me. And gather up your thoughts. Ara. Where was I ? Yea — His wealth — 'twas thus he said — and, 'faith, sometimes I wish he had not said ; sometimes I wish I had his leave to die, for, as you see, To me life brings small good, and some my death Might profit much ; with one to-day I spoke Who lives in prison for my sake, and others There are, my poor old servants, for me punished — And I away, their punishment would cease ; And he, he then were free to tread once more The English earth he loves,, and show himself Of Englishmen the stateliest. Ay, sure, I were best dead, albeit he bade me live. Phy. 'Tis not well, madam, on these things to think. Ara. Deem not I fear to die — in good sooth no. SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 83 Could I but die, I might be bom again In another world, where princesses are not. And royal blood ne'er heard of; there might I, A lowly shepherd's daughter, meet with him, A neighbour shepherd's son, in the fresh fields All daisy-starred, with nought 'twixtus and heaven; There might we woo, there wed, with loving faces Of dear friends round us, and yet each to each More dear than all, there live our lives for love. As to be lived they were given. [Seymour breaks into xbs.'\ Hark ! his voice — His — tell me not — I know — his, his — 'tis he ! [Rushing towards Seymour, who stands with his /ace buried in his hands. Look on me ! look ! What ! will you shut me out ? Out of thine arms in the darkness and the cold ? Open, and let me in. Sey. Ay, to thy home, Thy home upon my heart. My wife ! my love 1 [Clasjiing her to his breast. Phy. {To Attendant.l If e'er you felt one throb of pity stir Por her sorrows and her gentleness, let fall No word of this. Att. Betray her could I not, Though bribed with all the world. Sey. Lift up thine eyes ; I have yearned long enough ; rob me not now. O me 1 she swoons ! Help, help, I pray you help ! 86 ARABELLA STUART. [act v. [ They lay her down, her head resting on Seymour's knee. Gently, more gently. Nay, I'll hold her still ; You shall not part us. Wife, dost thou not hear ? 'Tis I that call — ^thy husband — ^look and see — Thy husband — see. \Throws off his cloak. Wife ! wife ! — Ah ! sure I was That word would be of power to unclose her eyes — And O thou knowest me ! thou smilest ! Ara. Yea, I know that thou art found, and the cloud gone — That darksome cloud wherein I wandered lost — And I am I again, being joined with thee. Have I not cause to smile ? Sey. O mine own love. How have I longed for this ! Ara. Ay, hold me fast In thy strong arms, those arms that plucked me forth From the realm of darkness and of night, those arms That brought me back unto myself and thee. Sey. Doubt not, doubt not ; they so shall cleave and grow To their lost treasure found, that easier 'Twill be to tear them from the shoulders off Than make them give thee up. Ara. And yet methinks Give up they must full soon. Sey. How dost thou mean ? None shall divide us now ; not our worst foes Would have the heart ; and these, you see, are friends, SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 87 Good friends, who, when they find that we are bent To brook no parting, will devise a way To help us forth together from this place — Will you not, friends ? and let us seek far hence Beyond the seas some comer of the earth Where she and I may live, with none made worse Or poorer for our loves, and we ourselves Out of all measure rich. Ara. O know'st thou not ? Husband — beloVd — I am dying. Sey. Dying! nay. Thou mak'st me well-nigh smile. In faith, not dying ; I'll kiss that fear away. Ara. If 'twere but fear, Thy kiss would cure it, sure ; but not e'en thou Canst heal what death hath touched. Sey. Dare not again Speak to me thus. Is then thy love so small That, being but newly found, thou wouldst away, And never see me more ? Ara. Never ! who says That death means never ? Have we not before us Eternity to seek each other in ? And will you set upon eternity The limit of a never ? that word never Is a word eternity's too vast to hold. Sey. O with that look upon thy face thou seemest Far off from me already. Stay — come back ! Wife ! pity, pity ! wife ! 88 ARABELLA STUART. [act v. Ara. Lament me not ; I am happy, wondrous happy, and should be more But for thy sorrow sounding in mine ears, Which seems to draw me down while I would rise. let it cease with me, and when I am dead. And thou wouldst weep, think I have had such hours Of gladness in my life, though with long spaces Of weariness between, that my full sum Of joy hath been made up, nor would I change With those who are deemed more favoured ; and besides. Think all this happiness that I have known Hath come to me through thee, and loving thee, And being by thee loved ; and thinking thus Live happy all thy days — and love me still. Sey. Ay, will I, while my soul doth know herself. Ara. And 'twill be well ; in love is the best life ; 1 doubted once, but now I doubt no more — Heav'n's choicest gift to earth, e'en as they say. There was a song — I think to hear it yet — \Sings faintly i\ Love, smiling love, What so happy and fair, Below or above, In the earth or the air i True — yea, all true ; here in my heart I feel Its sunshine now — so smiling — happy and fair. Att. Lady ! Alas ! how faint doth grow her breath ! SCENE I.] ARABELLA STUART. 89 Ah ! ope your eyes, and look on us once more. Phy. Peace, peace ; distract her not. Ara. [Raising herself suddenly.'] Husband, time was We made a tryst and niissed it, but this tryst We will not break ; yonder I'll welcome thee. Till then be happy — happy e'en as I. \£>ies. Phy. Gone. Sey. Gone ! Can Heaven let this be ? O why ? [Casts himself down beside Arabella's body. The Curtain falls. The End. THE HEIR OF LINNE. PERSONS REPRESENTED. Lionel, Lord of Linne. Lord Fitzwater, i ^ . . Guests staying tn Sir Rufus Rollestone, \ ^. ^ „ ^ , „ Lionels House. Hubert, Son to Lord Fitzwater, 1 John of the Scales,, Steward to Lionel. Tom Tod, an old Tenant. Lady Fitzwater, Wife to Lord Fitzwater. Geraldine, their Daughter. Amabel, Lettice, Joan, Wife to jFohn of the Scales. LiLiAS, Niece to j^ohn. I Sisters to Sir Rufus Rollestone. Other Guests, Servants, &=€. The Scene is laid in LioneVs House and Park. ACT I. ' His father was a right good lord, His mother a lady of high degree ; But they, alas ! were dead him fro, And he loved keeping company.' Old Ballad of The Heir of Linne. THE HEIR OF LINNE. ACT I. SCENE I. A Park. On one side, towards the back of the stage, is seen part of a large and stately house. On the other, nearer the front, is a ruined ivy-grown cottagf, with over-hanging balcony approached by a worn flight of steps. John of the Scales discovered, with a bundle of bills in his hand. yohn. To vintner due nine thousand crowns, nine hundred — Why not have made it ten? cheese-paring knave — Then to silk-mercer seven thousand odd For hanging guest-chambers ; were the guests mine I'd rather pay the hanging of them too. Then tailor comes, and goldsmith, clock-maker, Coach-maker, harness-maker, and a dozen Such beggar-makers else. Ay, ay, my day Draws on apace, the day that all my life 96 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act i. I've toiled and sweated for, the day that I, E'en I, whom men call John of the Scales in mock, Being but a weigher-out of others' goods, Shall see myself a lord o'er that same land Where I have been a servant — lord of Linne. And others too shall see ; that roistering crew Of guests who fill the house and eat it up — Working for me, not knowing — they shall see. And doff the cap, and say, ' Well met, fair sir. How do you, sir, to-day, and your good dame?' They who now brush me by with no more heed Than though I were a joint-stool in their way. And I shall say, ' Sweet lords, sweet ladies, thanks ; I kiss your hands;' and they will say, ' We yours ;' So shall we purr together all day long. But lick me bare they shall not ; I am made Of other stuff than that young crowing cock Who tosses o'er his head in wantonness His overplus of grains — that scattergood. Sieve-pocketed, sieve-brained, who for a while Still calls himself my master. Enter Lionel. Lion. What ! good John ? Back from your errand ? Pardon, I knew not You were so deep in thought. jfohn. {Hiding away the bills.'] My thoughts were all Of you, my lord, and of your business. SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 97 Lion. No need to tell me that, old faithful friend. And you have brought the jewels ? jFohn. Ay, sir, here — - \Producing a casket. The richest I could buy in all Carlisle. I hope they are chosen well ; with my poor best I strove to please your lordship. Lion. That I know ; Come, let me see. \Opehing the casketi\ A necklace first of pearls, Fine as though formed of Beauty's tears congealed. And white enough to lie heaved up and down On the whitest neck that is, and not be shamed. This likes me well. And next — of lesser cost. And yet not poor — a bracelet of graved gold Bossed o'er with rubies, worthy well to make A dainty wrist its willing prisoner ; This is good too. And then a half-score more Of golden toys — clasps, brooches, and the like — But each set with a gem of price that gives To its slightness patent of nobility ; A well-judged choice indeed. \Looking round.'] Quick, put them up ; They must not yet be seen. Enter, from the house, Sir RtJFUs Rollestone, Amabel, and Lettice, in archery costume, with bows and arrows. Ha ! now I know 98 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act i. That these fair ladies think they have well-nigh Surprised a secret, but upon my life An honest secret 'tis, and one that soon Their eyes shall look on, and their hands shall touch. Well, for the contest you are full, equipped ? Amab. O yes, my lord, and burning to make proof Of Amazonian skill. Lett. Which is the way That we must take unto the battle-field ? Lion. On the smooth sward that lies beyond the copse The targets are set up ; your brother knows The nearest path ; he'll be your guide and guard. And guard them well, Sir Rufus, for the shafts Shot by their eyes may make them more assailed Than the arrows in their hands will make them feared. Amab. Assailed ! who should assail us, good my lord? Lion. A little fellow-archer, who, doubt not. Hath marked you for his prey. You'll find, me- thinks. Most of our company already ttiet. To whom beseech you say I'll come anon. And play my part of umpire. Sir Ruf. And till then We'll leave you with your mystery all alone. A mystery and a mistress are two things SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 99 'Tis always better for the owner of To be alone with. This way, sisters — come. Amab. Of that same archer more another time. \Exeunt Sir Rufus, Amabel, and Lettice. Lion. Too liberal of wit, and tongue, and eyes, Both these ; my choice is best. yohn. Is it for them The jewels are, my lord ? Lion. What ! know you not ? They are prizes for the ladies, my fair guests. Who try their skill in this day's shooting match. For the best score the necklace ; the next best Shall bear away the bracelet ; and the rest Find comfort in those trinkets, since shame 'twere Any should part no richer than they came From where I'm master. jFohn. You will keep, I see. Your golden name of being in all the north The lord of fullest purse and freest hand. And for the gentlemen the prizes are Lion. Horses that each shall choose at his good will Out of my stables. O I'll not fall short Of what fame makes me out. Enter, from the house, Lord and Lady Fitzwater, Hubert, and Geraldine, the last two in archery costume. Now, in good time. 100 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act i. Of all my guests most honoured. Lord Fitzwater, To you, and to your ladyship, much thanks That you vouchsafe your presence at our sports. LordF. Nay, 'tis a joy, believe me well, a joy — And, when the sun is out, not damp at all. Lady F. And if it were, for you he would brave much. Lion. I hope, and nothing doubt, that for your pains You'll see your daughter's arrow wing its way Victorious to the centre. Geral. O for that I fear my courage will not serve to-day. Some, being watched, are made thereby more bold. But I am not of those — would that I were ! Ah ! how you men, that are so brave and strong, Must scorn a coward ! Lady F. And to-day, poor child. She's more a coward even than her wont — So full of foolish flutters with no cause. Indeed since here at Linne she hath been a guest I oft have feared that something ails my girl, But know not what. Lion. You think not 'tis the place That suits her ill ? Lady F. The place ! nay, nay, fear not ; As for the place, it suits her as no place Suited her yet. O she is wondrous well. Where are the sports to be ? SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. loi Lion. Hubert, you saw Where they had pitched the tent ; pray you conduct Your father and your mother to the seats Of chiefest honour 'mong the lookers-on, While you and your fair sister join yourselves Unto the ranks of archers. Hub. Yes. I hope That none will be before me in the choice Of the star-chested bay ; there is a horse I'm set upon. Lion. Or so at least shall be — For since you are run away with by the bay He shall be yours, although I buy him back Of the winner double-priced. No thanks, no thanks ; You make your father wait. Lord F. Now to the tent ; In the tent we shall be better ; though indeed This is a kind of Eden you have here, And the trees the oldest trees that e'er I saw, And the sunshine brightest, and the wind, for wind. Marvellous soft — in faith, a joy to feel — Still in the tent we shall be out of it. Lion. Good Hubert, lead the way; I'll follow straight. Fair Lady Geraldine, be very sure, All tim'rous as you are, you shall not fail To-day of conquest. Geral. Deem you so in truth ? 102 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act i. Yet am I tim'rous still. \Exit with Lord and Lady Fitzwater and Hubert. Lion. And O how bravely Her tim'rousness doth show ! Tell me, good John, What thinic you of that lady ? jFohn. There were here Two ladies ; is't the young or old you mean ? Lion. Come, come, thou foolish fellow, well thou knowest. And hark, I have a mind that she I mean Shall be, if so she please. Lady of Linne. What say you of my choice ? jfohn. [Aside.l She hath no dower, And will but help her lord to spend more fast. [A/oud.] I say your choice is worthy well of you. My excellent good master. Zion. Thanks, kind friend. I'm glad my purpose finds you so content. Since it is well-nigh fixed ; and, sooth to tell, She is the guest for whom the rest were asked, And for whose pleasure, as I can, I seek Each day new pastime, and on whose white neck I hope to set those pearls, since with her bow She is skilled as Dian's self. I have dreamed long That in her eyes, when I draw near — albeit As soon as she hath looked she looks away — A light of welcome kindles. SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 103 yohn. I should marvel Were't otherwise, my lord, [Aside] since she is poor, And he, in seeming, rich. Zion. And time it is That I should wed at last ; too long already I have tarried, waiting for I know not what ; Some bright impossible maid, some counterpart That never was nor ever yet shall be To dreamy longings such as sometimes come To a youthful foolish heart — say in the pause 'TwLxt day and night that a spring twilight brings, When hawthorn blossoms rock themselves to sleep. And no sound stirs save from the nested birds A twitter here and there, and the faint stars Steal forth from the paling sky, and in our souls. All else being lulled to rest, vain yearnings wake. But I will rather turn unto the real. And with a thankful mind take what it gives — A fair maid and a kind, of equal birth, To double all I have of happiness With sweet companionship. yohn. And you do well. Nor better could I wish. Lion. Give me the jewels ; I must go share them out. O but first stay — Have you not noted that when each fair guest Shall have her prize two trinkets will be left ? y^ohn. I bought, my lord, but what you bade me buy. Lion. I know, and these two more I bade you buy 104 THE HEIR OF LINNE, [act i. For Joan, and for Lilias your niece, That they may not be the only ones to go Without a gift to-day. Bid them come straight ; They shall be first to choose. yohn. O my kind lord. Such honour they are not worth — although indeed My wife, poor soul, prays for you morn and night. Lion. Call them, I say. 'jfohn. [Calling towards the Aouse.] What ! Joan, wife, come forth, And make good speed ; our lord would speak with you. Zion. And Lilias too, I pray. Enter Joan. jpohn. And LiUas too. Niece ! She is always last. Lion. She was last called. Joan, how now ! Give you good-morrow, dame. jFoan. My lord is ever kind. [Aside.] Should this be all He hath to give to-day ? Lion. I called you hither — But where is Lilias ? jfohn. Here at last, my lord. Enter Lilias. Lion. Be welcome, little maiden. You are called. And you, good Joan, that you each may choose SCENE I.J THE HEIR OF LINNE. 105 From these the brooch or clasp that to your liking Shall most commend the giver. Joan, come ; You are the oldest friend ; you first shall speak. yoan. Now see you there ! Lilias, have I not said There ne'er was lord in all the world like ours, So liberal and so lordly in his mind, And who in giving hath such taking ways ? Have I not said it, Lilias ? are you dumb ? Lili. 'Tis true that we have found him bountiful. Lion, Come, make your choice. yoan. 'Tis sore against my will ; But for your sake, my lord, this fair green stone. If so it pleases you • Lion. This emerald ? I'm glad you judge so well. Take it as pledge Of my best friendship for your John and you. \To Lilias.] Now say, which shall be yours ? Lili. None. I give thanks, But I have need of nought. Lion. Need or no need. Take one you must ; a gold brooch serves as well As a brass pin to make a kerchief fast. Lili. The pin doth suit my state and the brooch not. Sir, you must pardon me. John. 'Tis right to have Sense of your state, which truly is poor enough. Being on us dependent, but to cast io6 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act i. Back on my lord his gifts is arrogance That suits you least of all. "jpoan. And is sure sign Of a thankless churlish heart — not to take gladly All things that come ; and where she learned such ways I know not — not from us. Lion. Chide not too much. Lilias, I pray you take — ^to pleasure me. y^oan. [Aside to Lilias.] The sapphire is the costliest. Lili. I will have This, since I must. Lion. What ! this poor garnet clasp ! Meanest of all ! You are too much a child To be let choose. This sapphire, that, deep hid In the earth, hath yet lain dreaming of Heav'n's blue — The colour, as they say, of faithful love — This shall be yours ; and see, with mine own hand I'll pin it in your kerchief. Why, how is't You are so out of breath ? Enter Tom Tod. Tom. Lord Lionel ! Lion. What ! old Tom Tod ! How goes it with old Tom? Tom. Ill, very ill. The cow has burst herself. One might have thought a beastwould have more sense Than be so gluttonous. SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 107 Lion. Cheer up ; we'll try- To find you comfort. Tom. The cow is not the worst ;, My daughter sends me word my son-in-law Has drunk himself to death ; and I am left With the little ones to keep — and the calf tooi 'yohn. Then had you best keep all from following Upon their parents' steps. Tom. And, sir, you know I'm now your oldest tenant — the last left Of all who at your christening drank the toast. shall I e'er forget how my good lord. Your father, let me feel the weight of you ? Ay, and I plucked up heart to wipe my mouth, And lay a sounding kiss upon your cheek — Your cheek as soft and round as any peach. 1 oft say 'tis not all who in their arms Have held my lord, and kissed him on the cheek — You have not, sir, yourself. Lion. O I know well I have no older friend. Tom. And though 'tis true Full many a thing you have been pleased to give, I ne'er asked aught ; and Master John of the Scales Will tell you that no farthing of my rent Was ever yet behind. But now, my lord, These troubles others' faults have made for me Have brought me here to ask you for a while To show a little patience. io8 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act i, Lio)t. Patience, man? Ay, if you will, till the calf is grown a cow. And your least grandchild wed. Look you, to-day I am in haste, being yonder waited for ; Another time we'll talk ; for present needs Here is some gold — but stay ! with the long way I see you are tired and faint ; get within doors, And say I bade them feast you with the best. And so for now farewell. \Exit. Tom. And but to think These arms once dandled him ! \Eoi:it, towards the house. yoan. Well, Lilias, You have earned high wage to-day for little pains. A goodly sapphire brooch, for which you ne'er Have said so much as thanks. Lilt. I knew not how. yoan. You know not how to do aught that you should. Your manners shame us in all companies ; And for my lord I think you keep your worst — As crabb'd as if you bore him some hid grudge. John. And why you like him not 'tis hard to tell, For sure to you he hath been kind enough. Although it seems his kindness is forgot. Lili. O not forgot ! Nay, I remember well. And shall remember when- all else is dim — How, three years since, I came unto that door. Footsore and weary, having in the world SCENE I.J THE HEIR OF LINNE. 109 But the orphan's weeds I wore, and that poor scrawl My father, dying, wrote my uncle John ; And how you said you had not means to bear More burdens than your own, and how again I was going forth upon my unknown road. When he o'erheard, and came, and bade me stay. And told you all your spendings for my sake Should be by him made up, and turned at once Dark into light. Joan. Here's a good memory ! Pity that where you think you owe so much You let yourself be deemed a lumpish clod That warms in the sunshine with no sense of thanks. Lili. O must he judge me thus ? yoan, How should he judge ? Girl, you have been a fool. There was a time He looked on you, 1 fancied, with a favour That might have ripened to I know not what ; But thereof must your peevish thankless ways Have quite distasted him. yohn. O a vile vice Is ingratitude, the vilest vice that is. Let us forget it if we can, and turn To a theme more relishing. \To Joan.J You ask me not How the great bus'ness goes. J^oan. How ? y^ohn. To a wish. no THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act i. Bills, and more bills, and ev'ry day more bills. If this pace doth but hold, 'twill not be long Ere you shall see your John a lord of the land, The master of his master. 'jfoan. There's my heart ! And a rare lord thou'lt be, and one to make The old ones look about. And when thou'rt lord, I shall be lady, and go dressed in silk, And never ask how much the yard ? y^ohn. I warrant. And flaunt in blue and red and green and gold. And chide at servants, and have delicate health. Like any real lady. y^oan. Honey John ! yohn. My sugar-sweet ! But while thou wait'st thy turn. We are like to have another lady first. yoan. What's this ? jfohn. Nay, 'twill not hinder, rather help. My lord to-day told me he had a mind To woo for wife the Lady Geraldine ; But that is nought to us ; her father's poor As twice-skimmed milk ; the wedding will but serve To make more bills, and bring us faster on. Joan. 'Twere hard indeed if aught should put you off. You who have waited with such patient trust. John. No fear. I've bided long, and borne full long SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. iii The niggard father's pinched ox-muzzling ways, And then the patron airs of the thriftless son ; But now is my reward at hand and sure — So Providence helps those that help themselves. 'jfoan. And none e'er helped himself to more than you. Come in, dear heart, and have a drink of ale, And on the best chair shall you set your feet ; Your sweet face shines with all your toil and moil. John. Troth, a good comfortable wife thou art. Whom 'twill be joy to make a lady of. \Exeunt John and Joan, towards the house. Lilt. He to be wed ! And yet a thousand times I've told myself I must hear this one day ; And can I not believe ? and learn to bear ? What is't to me ? I that have hardly raised Mine eyes to his, or spoke with him enough To let him know 1 thank him ; though in dreams Oft — Ah ! how oft — when sleep hath made me rich And equal-born with him. But now ne'er more, E'en in dreams now — ne'er more. O that word ' wed ' — A happy word to some ! [ Weeps. Enter Hubert. Hub. What have we here ? A pretty maid in tears, and all alone ? Then is there room for comfort and for me. A kiss, my fair one, come. [Laying hold of her. 112 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act i. Lilt. Away ! away ! Hub. Nay, now, make haste ; no time to be so coy; There's company at hand. Lilt. Help ! Enter Lionel. Lion. On thy life Let go that maiden. Hub. What ! will you dare try So high a voice with me ? Enter Lord and Lady Fitzwater, Geraldine, Sir RuFus RoLLESTONE, Amabel, Lettice, and other Guests. Lady F. How now ! how now ! Hubert, what is't ? Hub. Nought, but that here I found. Weeping by herself, a pretty gardener wench. And thought to give her comfort with a kiss, When he came 'twixt us in as much of a storm As though she were a queen and he her knight. Lion. What ! weeping ! my poor Lilias ? was this so? Sir, you have been to blame, and much to blame. Yet shall you have her pardon, I doubt not. Will you but let me tell her on your part You are sorry. Hub. I to make excuse to her ! SCENE I.J THE HEIR OF LINNE. 113 « Lady F. And more than that, good Hubert, would you do To please my lord of Linne. [Aside to Hubert.] What ! are you mad ? Hu6. Tell her whate'er you will. Zion. Lilias, you hear ; Will you ask more than this ? Ztk'. O I ask nought — Only your leave to go. Lion. Nay, but not yet. I will present you unto these my guests, For some there are whom you perchance one day May have to know. Friends, this is one who here Should be with courtesy and kindness seen. Both for herself, and since she is the niece Of my old faithful servant, John of the Scales. What ! trembling still ! thou hast been frighted sore. Geral. Or else maybe hath donned those pretty fears As a becoming fashion. Lion. Why, in truth They do become her well. Lady F. Now sure 'tis time To turn unto concernments of more weight. Sir Ruf. [Aside to Amabel.] More weight indeed if she be one of them. Lady F. And from us all, my lord, to give you thanks For the pastime of to-day. O such a day ! 114 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act i. Amab. In faith, a perfect day. Such pleasure 'twas To see the wondrous coolness and strong hand Of our dear Lady Geraldine bear off So well deserved a prize. Lett. O charming quite ! Though you, methinks, good sister, have no cause To be ill pleased ; that bracelet Amab. • And who said I was ill pleased ? I'm ravished, overjoyed — Such fire ! such colour ! \Looking at her bracelet.'] But my lord of Linne In jewels hath the finest, rarest taste. Sir Ruf. Ay, and in horses too, as I to-day Have reason to be glad of. Lady F. I'd not say In jewels or in horses, but in all. \Aside to Lord Fitzwater.] Have you no word ? Lord F. A marvellous rare taste ! Do but look round us ; where will you see else A park like this ? such groups of trunks, such mass- ings ■ Of light and shade in the foliage ? And the house — What lines ! what symmetry of contrasted styles ! What depth ! what breadth of meaning ! Lion. I am glad You so approve, though neither did I plant The trees, nor build the house. Hub. As for the house. SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 115 'Twere well enough were this whole comer of it Not spoiled by yonder hovel ; to my mind A lord's house is not lordly, elbowing A battered barn. Amab. That's scarce to be called fault Which is so easy to be ta'en away. Sir Ruf. The site were good to build new stables on. Lett. Or a fair arbour twined with honey-suckle. Lord F. Or since perchance you have a reverence For what is old — ^and truly in that wall There is much feeling — it might be restored So that you would not know it. Lion. Ay, but, friends, Of this can I do nought ; that hut is mine, And yet not mine. Sir Ruf. How so ? Lion. Of all you see, 'Tis the one thing that I can part with never. And never lose, yet also the one thing That I can have no use of Lord F. And the cause ? Lion. Why, this. You know my father ere his death Grew strange in many ways. Lord F. I know — so strange, He had no relish for the company Of the best friends he had. Lion. Well, of his ways One of the strangest was that he was wont ii6 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act r. To spend long days and nights shut up alone In this old disused lodge, when he would suffer Not me nor any near him. And how strong Was his fancy for the place showed in his death As much as in his life, for by his will That crazy cot alone, of all I have, I am restrained from power to give or sell Or part with ever ; yet from use thereof Another clause debars me, which declares It neither must be changed nor added to, But left untouched in ev'ry beam and stone. Nor yet by any lived in save by me, And not by me until it shall become The only home I have. When all else goes, And I shall stand a beggar 'neath the sky, That roof shall give me shelter. Fair provision Against the perils of unthrift, is't not ? Sir Ruf. A most sweet consolation for old age. Lord F. When all else goes ! Too plainly now I see That, as I feared, my poor friend's brain was touched. Lion. Indeed he was beset with the strangest whims. Why, ere he died he even took distaste 'Gainst good old John of the Scales, and watched as though To find him in a fault. Where's Lihas ? [Looking round for Lilias, 'w}w has slipped dway a moment before. SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 117 Sir Ruf. A shy bird, good my lord, and flown away. Lady F. She hath thought there was no further need of her — As, in her place, most would. Lord F. Or feared perchance ,,The damp of the evening air. Lion. O pardon me ; I stay you here too long. Pray all, come in, And these kind ladies of their charity Shall give us help with dance and song to spend The last dull remnant of a golden day. Fair Lady Geraldine, the laws of war Make you our queen to-night, so fit it is That with your conqueror hand you grace your host. Geral. If 'tis the law, I must not say you nay. Albeit too much you honour me. [Lionel leads her towards the house, the others following. Amab. [Aside to Lettice.] That's true. I hate such singling-out. Lett: [Aside to Amabel.] O in vile taste ! [Exeunt all into the house. Enter Tom Tod, carrying a basket, and Lilias. Lili. Take heed, I pray, in carrying, that the flagon Chafe not the venison pasty. And remember, The children's cakes are stowed between the folds Of the napkin at the top. ii8 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act i. Tom. Bless your kind eyes, And the kind heart that they are windows to ! I oft have said poor Tom in all the world Hath but two friends ne'er tired of being friends, And these two are, you and Lord Lionel. Lili. I and Lord Lionel ! why, sure no two So far apart were ever named in a breath. Tom. The names go well together in my prayers. Where they are used enough to being joined. Lili. Be thanked for that ! — I mean for having said You pray for me. Beseech you do so still — And for Lord Lionel, for well you know He much deserves of you. Tom. O that is so ; Heav'n's blessing be upon his comely face ! For sure a comelier never saw the sun — And but to think I've held him in my arms, And kissed his cheek ! Not all can say as much ; You cannot, ha? Lili. Nay, now, good master Tom, How strangely do you talk ! And see how fast Night steals away the colour from all things ; You had best make haste. Tom. Indeed I must be gone ; 'Tis a long way, and my old bones are stiff. Farewell, kind little mistress ; may your heart Ne'er feel desire but shall be filled as full — As you have filled this basket. \Exit. SCENE,!.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 119 Lili. A kind wish ! But all too late. ■\Music sounds from the hoiise, the windows of which are now lighted up, the stage having for some time been growing gradually darker. Now is the dance begun ; He leads her forth by the hand, and 'neath his gaze Her conscious eyes look down, yet see him still. And trembling silent joy is o'er them both. Ay, but they know not as I know what shadow Of poverty and ruin lies in wait ; Could they but know, could she^-0 he might find That ice can glow in the sun and yet be cold. — How ! am I glad ? Ah ! wretch ! what ! glad to think He who hath done me nought but good must soon Wander a landless beggar ! O no ! no ! So wicked am I not ; Heav'n knows, to save him From what must come, I'd even give my life. But how ? what can I do ? how should I dare In his presence lift my voice ? and if I could. What am I that my speech should find belief? If I should say, ' That man you trust so much. My uncle, for whose sake alone it is I am fostered in this house, that man is false,' How would he scorn my words ! and me with them, Base and unthankful more than e'en he deemed. So must I wait and watch the ruin come, And only strive with prayers. I20 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act i. Enter, from the house, Lionel and Geraldine. Hark ! voices ! {Seeing theni\ Ah ! Where shall I fly ? where hide ? \Ascends one or two of the steps leading up to the ruined cottage, and cowers from view behind the ivy-grown railing, but, Lionel and Geral- dine drawing nearer, she has to steal up the staircase step by step until she reaches the bal- cony at the top, where she crouches down behind the balustrade. Lion. A fitter place Than 'mid yon whirling foolish-laughing crowd For speaking those first holy words of love Thou hast giv'n me leave to say. Geral. Ay, if but there They miss us not, and wonder. Lion. What of that ? All shall to-morrow learn what dear new rights Thy answ'ring smile just now conferred on me. Geral. I know not yet how I could be so bold. Lion. Sit down, I pray, if thou wilt not disdain To let me sit by thee. Geral. Indeed, my lord, I would not make you stand if you are tired. [They seat themselves on the lowest step of the staircase. Lion. Give me thy hand. SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 121 Geral. Here, but what would you do With aught so useless ? Lion. First commit on it This most sweet theft, \Kissing her /land] and then for my offence Pay penance with this ring, that, warm from pressing My finger, now shall be the guard of thine. Alack ! I had forgot ; too slender these For aught of mine to fit them ; but yet deign To keep my pledge — see, put it on thy chain. Geral. Or on your little finger there's a ring Maybe would suit these foolish joints of mine — Unless perchance it be a fair one's gift You grudge to part with. ' Lion. There's none fair save thee. But for the world I would not give thee this ; This is a poisoned ring. Geral. And you can say 'Tis poisoned, and yet wear it ? Lion. Ay, because My father on his death-bed gave it me. And bade me let it never from my hand. But keep it safe as his best legacy. Geral. How very strange your father must have been ! And then he told you there was poison in't ? Lion. He told me that if e'er the time should come When I stood reft of fortune and of friends. 122 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [acti. And all the light had faded from my sky, I was to break this stone, and underneath Should I find comfort. Gerat. O how horrible ! But I must wonder how your father's thoughts Seemed to be brooding always on the image Of you in want and ruin. There's no chance Such dreams could e'er come true ? Lion. What ! my dear love ! Can fear for me so ruflSe thy smooth brow ? But let that cloud be lifted from thy heart, Though me so much it flatters ; for be sure, Those fancies in my father were but bred Of age and sickness ; he hath told me oft He left me richest lord in all the north ; So needst thou never fear to see me poor. Art thou so glad ? Geral. Mine own dear Lionel ! — Not that I reckon gold as more than dross. Lion. O well I knew ! Now, fairest, hast thou set My ring upon thy chain ? I pray thee, haste To make our contract whole by fett'ring me With a ring of thine in turn. \Taking a ring which she offers him.~\ Too dainty-small For my gross fingers ; but yet, hanging here, 'Twill serve to mark my bondage. [Fastens it to his chain. And behold ! SCEiitKi.] THE H&IR OF LINNE. 123 A happy sign ! as we plight troth the moon' From her silver-gated palace in the clouds Looks forth, and shines full on the oak of Linne. \Rising and pointing towards a tree. Geral. The oak of Linne ! thereof I ne'er have heard. Lion. What ! knew you not we had an oak of Linne ? Ay, in good sooth, and a spirit of the oak. The guardian of our race — sounds that not well ? Called the White Maid of Linne, or the Veiled Maid, Which title best you like. Geral. So ghostly both. And haloed with romance, I could not choose. There is a legend, sure, behind those names ? Lion. Ay, that the lord of Linne who first built here In ancient times his house had planned its site In midst of a wood, where e'en then stood that oak. And e'en then old, but marked by him to fall — When lo ! one night, the moon being full as now. Walking alone among the trees to ponder The fair proportions of his halls to be. He heard his name called by a silver voice ; He looked, and saw amid the moonlit leaves A form, all veiled in shining film, and hid. Save for two arms, that made him long the more To see the face, so white they were and fair — As thine arms, love. K 124 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [acti. Geral. Nay now, what foolishness ! Well, and what then ? Lion. Those arms so white and fair Stretched towards him pleadingly, and through the veil Sounded again the silver voice, and prayed That he would suffer still that oak to stand. Since she who spoke must live with it and die. Her life with its life being made one by Fate. Geral. And like a gallant cavalier I see He gave the fair her will. Lion. Ay, nor had cause To rue his yielding, for until his death Was that veiled maid his friend, and oftentimes Held converse with him 'neath the moon's pale rays, And gave him counsel wise, and showed him secrets Of the future and the past. And e'en to those Of his blood that followed him, old stories say She hath been known in the moonlight to appear With words of timely teaching. But now men Have grown so old in living that they see No miracle in living or aught else. And with the clang of new philosophies Have scared the gracious visitant away. Geral. I see at least she hath not been so kind As show herself to you. Lion. And if to any It should have been to me, for many a night Here, when I was a boy, have I kept watch. SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 125 A truant from my pillow, till at last, By cool — nay, icy-cold— considering, I was constrained to think that the White Maid Had ne'er been more than the pale gleam of the moon. Shimmering in silver 'mong the swaying leaves. Geral. You speak as though half sorry thus to think. Lion. And so I am. 'Twere sweeter sure to deem That here in this dull world we were o'erwatched By a kind guardian spirit that at times Deigned to be seen by us though through a veil. And give us lessons of wisdom in our need — So sweet that e'en now could I half believe. Gei'al. I shall be jealous of your White Maid soon. Lion. What said I ? Nay, I wholly do believe ; Here is the proof, here my White Maid of Linne, Who still will be my guide through life's rough ways ; And with no envious veil, but with red lips Tempting a lover's kiss — as thus, and thus. {Kissing her. Geral. Nay, pray you, pray you now. And hark, within The music is at end ; we shall be missed. And greeted with who knows what foolish jests And curious eyes. In pity take me back. This poor heart flutters so. Lion. I'll not deny What thou thus pleadest for. Come, dear one, come. \Exeunt Lionel and Geraldine into the house. LiLiAS comes down from her hiding-place. 126 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act i. Lili. How doth he shield and fold her round with love ! O Heaven, of her blessings give her sense, And let no cloud e'er fall athwart their joy. No cloud ! alack ! the cloud hangs o'er them now, Albeit by them unspied, and soon must break. O might I speak and warn him ! Were but I That white veiled maid he told her of ! how soon Would I put forth my wise protecting power To counsel and to save the heir of Linne ! He would believe me then, and I, unseen Behind my veil, could speak to him unabashed. Were it but thus ! — O what a thought was there ! If it could be ! — What's this that sparkles so ? \Stooping. A ring ! a slender-fingered woman's ring ! This is the pledge she gave him ; then will he Be back anon to seek it — and alone. Since of such precious gift and of its loss He would not lightly tell. He here alone ! And yonder, sleeping hushed beneath the moon, The oak of Linne. It must be done and shall. Now will I pay some of that debt I owe. \Exit towards the house. Re-enter Lionel. Lion. Her first love-pledge, so sweetly given, lost! Could she but know, how careless should I seem SCENE I.J THE HEIR OF LINNE. 127 Of it and her alike ! Yet am I not — No, truly not — I love her with my heart, Sure to the very height of all I dreamed That love could ever be. So fair ! so kind ! Who could wish more than I have found in her ? Or even to himself imagine more, On this side Heaven ? — Where should be that ring ? \As he wanders about looking on the ground, Lilias, veiled, glides from behind the trunk of the oak- tree. Lili. Lionel, lord of Lintte. Lion. Who is't that calls ?^ O thou long waited for, is't thou at last ? — Or else am I perchance but jested with ? Lili. No jest is this, but thy best friend thou seest, Who what she owes thy race would now pay back With needed counsel. But ere more be said Take up thy ring, thy Geraldine's first gift, That at thy foot lies shining. Lion. O 'tis so ! [Stooping for the ring, then kneeling. Now do I find thy truth, immortal one, And humbly thus adore. Lili. Since with such awe Thou bendest to my voice, let now its precepts Find in thy heart like rev'rence. To no man Give too much trust, but let thyself be he Who in thine own concernments hath most part Of knowledge both and guidance ; in thy house 128 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act i. And inmost counsels thou dost cherish now A traitor that doth wrong thee. Lion. O and who ? Can any be so base ? Lili. Take thou thyself Governance of thine own, and thou shalt both Discover and defeat. Yet one thing more It needs to save thee — this ; in all thou spendest Count what is left behind, lest thou with giving The means of giving waste, and thy to-day On thy to-morrow feed. No store too great For the gluttony of unthrift to swallow up. And thine to its end is nearer than thou knoweSt. Dost heed my words ? Lion. O with religious ear. Lili. Take then my blessing with thee, heir of Linne, And keep my counsels still. Be frugal, wise. And trust no man too much by night or day, So shalt thou thrive. Lion. \Bowing down his head reverentially.] I worship and obey. [^The Curtain falls. End of Act I. ACT II. ' They ranted, drank, and merry made. Till all his gold it waxfed thin ; And then his friends they slunk away. They left the unthrifty heir of Linne. 130 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act n. ACT II. SCENE I. A Hall for dancing. LiLiAS and Joan discovered, the former arranging gar- lands on the wall, the latter entering with a basket of flowers. y^oan. Here are more flowers to finish the festoons — And best make haste ; else will the company Come in to dance, and find you at your task. Lili. 'Tis well-nigh done. Strange that our lord should care, Night after night, for revels such as these. J^oan. Not strange at all for empty heads to dance ; No brains need fear no jolting. Much more strangp 'Twas when he talked to my good man this morn Of the need of thrift. That, if you like, was strange. But the whim will pass as others. Well, well, girl. Keep to your work. Thrift and frugality ! Fine new words these ! And where he had them from I cannot understand. \_Exit. Lili. Yea^ but I can. SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 131 Kind Heav'n, if thou hast let me do him good, My prayers from this day forth must all be thaiiks. Enter Lionel. O pardon — I have finished. \Going. Lion. Nay, I pray, Be not so scared. Are you afraid of me, That when I come you are always finishing ? Lili, Afraid of you, my lord ! wherefore afraid ? Lion. 'Tis what I ask. And hark you, Lilias, I've news for you to-day that I must beg Good wishes for. You see before you one Made very happy, with a promised wife — The Lady Geraldine. Knew you of this? Lilt. I knew, my lord. Lion. And will not wish me joy ? Lili. O yes ; indeed, indeed I wish you joy. Lion. I well believe. Remember, little maid. That whether I be wed or not shall make No difi"erence to you. Lili. O none at all. Lion. I mean, you and your uncle and his wife Shall with a lord and lady still live here As you have lived till now with but a lord — Save that your uncle's post shall be henceforth Of greater ease and leisure, for I look. When I am wed, to fill'my idle hours With taking of mine own concerns more "charge Than yet I have, and being mine own steward. 132 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act ii. Lili. Not before then, my lord ? Lion. O 'twill be soon. For your good uncle have no fear meanwhile ; Till then in sooth I cannot. Shall a lover Have time for reck'nings and for castings-up — Save of his eyes unto his fair one's face ? You ought to be more learned in love's lore, And shall some day, I hope ; a better wish I could not give you, child. What ! in such haste? Lili. Ay, please, my lord. Lion. I will not stay you more. \Exit LiLiAS. Strange, how her voice seems as it were to stir A sleeping memory that yet wakes not ! Enter Hubert. What ! Hubert ! Welcome always, in your own And your fair sister's right. Hub. I thank you well. Can you spare leisure for some private speech Before the dance begins ? Lion. Whate'er you will You may command me in. Hub. There is in truth A little favour Lion. Say. Hub. Why, as you know, We are brothers now. Lion. So ray kind stars have ruled. SCENE I.] 7HE HEIR OF LINNE. 133 Hub. And, being such, I feel it is your due, Almost a debt I owe you, not to hide You can from ruin save me if you will. Lion. O how ? What ruin ? Hub. Ruin for the want Of what to you will seem so slight a thing I could half shame to tell ; thirty-nine thousand — Call them for roundness, forty thousand — crowns. Well? Lion. Forty thousand crowns ! Hub. The use of them. Say for three years. Nay, you should have my bond, All in due form. Lion. O all in form, no doubt. But forty thousand crowns ! Hub. I see how 'tis ; I have offended you. I know of late My troubles may have made me seem perchance A little crabb'd and sullen. Lion. No in faith ! No more than always — 'tis not that, I swear. \Aside?\ How would she counsel here ? \Aloud-^ Tell rrte then, Hubert, How came you in this need ? Hub. O well I knew You would be gen'rous still — and will repay you With the candid truth. A month ago, at cards — By no fault of mine own, but sheer ill-luck^ I lost the money, and since, as it fell out, 134 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act ii. I had not at the time enough at hand To acquit myself at once, I was constrained To ask a month's delay, and now the month Is at an end ; more simple nought could be. Lion. Longer they will not wait ? Hub. Nay, but make threat They will proclaim me unto all the world. I have letters here your blood would boil to read — Telling me to my face I cannot pay ; And truly but for your great kindness now, 1 see not how I could. Lion. Would not your father Hub. My father, might he know of this, would ne'er Speak word to me again. I could bear that. If he would help — but you may pluck the hairs Out of a bald man's pate as easily As money from my father. Without you, I should be now dishonoured and undone. Banned from the company of gentlemen. And cards, and sports, and all. Lion. [Aside.^ Dishonoured — he ! -Twould break his sister's heart. [A/oud.] Not a word more ; The money's yours, and to your hands shall pass Within the instant. Do but stay for me In my private closet yonder, while I bid My steward unlock his coffers. SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 135 Hub. I shall rest All my life long your debtor. Lion. So I know. That way — I'll follow soon. \Exit Hubert.] What ho ! Who's there ? Enter a Servant. Sirrah, go straight to Master John of the Scales. Say for a present purpose I have need Of forty thousand crowns, which I would have him At once bring hither. \Exit Servant.] Nay, with mine own self A.nd mine own pleasures must my thrift begin, Not with my friend in his extremest need, My friend, and brother of my plighted wife ; This can she ne'er have meant— that spirit pure Who hath me in her keeping, and will lead me To wiser and to better. Some would say That what I saw last night, and what I heard — Yea, e'en that heav'nly voice, that in mine ear So soft-compelling rings— was but a dream ; Yet surely 'twas no dream ; no more a dream Than all things fair and fleeting, than the sweep Of the wind athwart a field of golden grain, Or the passing breath of roses, or the warble Dying as 'tis born from the nightingale's sweet throat, Or the faint thrills that sometimes in men's hearts Open and shut the gates of Paradise — 136 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act 11. All fairest, soonest o'er, and for no price To be commanded back, and yet not dreams. Enter John of the Scales, with a wallet. my good John, thanks for this diligence ; You have the money yonder ? y^ohti. Ay, my lord ; In bonds and gold just forty thousand crowns. They told me you thereof had instant need. Lion. So have I, or so hath at least the friend Whom they are purposed for. Give hither quick ; He waits e'en now. j^ohn. Then from your hands, my lord, They will be parted with to his at once ? Lioti. Ay ; wherefore not ? yohn. No reason that I know. 1 did but ask because, when you with him Shall quite have done your bus'ness, I would crave Upon a poor concernment of mine own A little of your leisure. Lion. And 'twere hard If you, so ready always at my call, Should not sometimes find me at yours. Wait here ; I'll come anon. [Aside.] My life on't, 'tis not he I am bid beware of. [Exit. yohn. Sooner than I thought — Those forty thousand crowns to me are worth A month of wedding feasts and wedding bills. Well, well, 'tis not my part now to have qualms ; SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 137 As he has made his bed so must he lie, And so must I on mine ; and if henceforth My bed is soft, why, I have made it soft By working early and late, and all day long Fetching and carrying for a purse-proud fool. Who yawned while I was toiling. Now that's done. And I, who yet have only licked my fingers At others' dishes, may set mouth myself Unto mine own, and never heed who sees. Re-etiter Lionel. Lion. Well, John, what would you tell me ? some good news? For truly you were chuckling to yourself Like a pleased pigeon. yohn. [Aside.] A pert cub ! to try His sauciness on his betters ! [A/oi/d.] Is my lord Quite sure he is at leisure, and hath finished That bus'ness with his friend ? Lion. I had nought to do But give the money, and have given it. John. [Aside.] Once given ne'er comes back. [Aloud.] Sir, as I said, 'Tis on a little matter of mine own I now must trouble you. You will remember Those five-and-twenty thousand crowns wherewith I had the happiness, a twelvemonth past. Of minist'ring to your conveniency In the way of loan — my little all, my lord, 138 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act iJ. Hard earned by a life of toil, but willingly Adventured in your service. Lion. I know — Some moneys that you said had to be paid Just ere the rents fell due, and you till then Offered to lend them ; but methought long since You would have made this good. yohn. Nay, I was loth To do aught unseasonable. But, my lord. It chances now that I myself am called To make a payment to a creditor, The stoniest-hearted fellow that e'er lived. So for those five-and-twenty thousand crowns I am constrained to ask. Lion. Why, take them then ; You are keeper, as you know, of all my store. John. Of all, my lord? Lion. You know it. Pay your- self. yohn. Alas ! but with that sum I gave you now Your morjey-chest is drained. Lion. What say you there? Is this your stewardship ? How ! for a day To leave me bare ! yohn. Will not your lordship please To pay me back that money that you owe ? Lion. Pay ! and you say my money -chest is drained ! yohn. I'm sorry much, my lord, but I must seek Means to be paid, or shall be quite undone. SCENE I.J THE HEIR OF LINNE. 139 Lion, Go to the town, and borrow in my name, And take your money back with usury, But be no more my steward. John. [Aside.] So ! dismissed ! [Aioud.] You speak, my lord, of borrowing in the town, But were you known there for a borrower, You who already owe so much, the news Would bring on you a flock of unpaid bills As thick as locusts, which would eat all up That in your house seems yours, both goods and jewels. Lion. Were this but true, thou wouldst not dare t6 tell— And yet, if false, e'en less. yohn. I wish, my lord. You would consider how I may be paid j 'Tis ruin for me else. Lion. Then hast thou wrought Thy ruin for thyself. yohn. I'd fain hope not. There was a bond, my lord, a little bond, Which when you took that loan from me you signed — Whereby you pledged yourself to pay in full, After a twelvemonth's use, within the space Of four-and-twenty hours from the time I asked ; Or, failing, should your house and lands be mine. Now, though 'twould grieve me infinitely Lion. Slave ! You told me when I signed 'twas but a form. 140 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act ii. yohn. And who could dream 'twas other than a form With one who, like your lordship, seemed to live .By spending, as more common men by food ? But since indeed that form has come to be The only safeguard of my little all, 'Twould show in me a bad rebellious mind Not to be thankful. Lion. And a spirit came To warn me 'gainst thee, and I heeded not ! Too used unto thy fat familiar face To guess it could be signboard to a heart Of such foul difference from other men's. Should I not now be doing to the world A good turn if I crushed thy vile life out ? \Seizing him. yohn. What! would you do me hurt? A poor old man, Grey in yoiu- service ! Help ! Lion. O get thee gone ! I shame to have touched thee. \Pushing him away. Enter Joan. yoan. Why, what have we here ? Panting, sweet John ! How's this ? what hath he done? yohn. Shaken my teeth together for nought else But that I told him I must be constrained To put in force that bond whereof you wot. SCENE I.J THE HEIR OF LINNE. 141 To save the little earnings of my life From being puffed and blown away by the wind Of his great fortune's fall. yoan. What ! then the time Is come I shall be lady ? Lion. Ay, a time, I see, that hath been watched and waited for. Base villain ! — O fear nought ; I'll not defile My fist on such as thou. yoan. Defile ! heyday ! On worse defilement you may chance to light. jfohn. Nay, let him think of that e'en as he will. My lord, ere putting on me these hard words, Were it not best examine for yourself, And, if you can, lay finger on my fault ? In the steward's chamber will you see my books Laid open to your view, nor do I fear You'll find a groat there not accounted for. Lion. I'll swear to that ; thou art too false thyself Not to take care thy books at least are true. But come, and show ; 'tis right mine eyes should see The proofs that prove me beggar and thee knave. \Bxeunt Lionel and John. Joan. These be great airs! And he without a rood Of land to call his own ! If there's a thing In the world I hate, 'tis folk that think themselves Better than other folk, while all the time Those others know 'tis they that are the best. 142 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act ii. Enter Lilias. Lilt. O what hath chanced ? Just now our lord passed by As pale and wan and little like himself As his own corse might look ; and with him went My uncle John, following his master's steps Slowly, as one half scared. Is there ill news ? 'jFoan. The news is, child, that you mistake to call The lord of Linne, or any lord that is. Your uncle's master, for of all things here Your uncle's self is master — or would be Except that I am mistress. Lili. Is this so ? yoan. Ay, is it, and his lordly lordship knows, Spite of big ways and words. Well, have you not A tongue to say you are glad ? Lili. So white and wild ! O fear you not whereto he may be driven By prick of unaccustomed misery ? Perchance to lay upon himself rash hands. yoan. That I know not ; 'tis all his own affair ; Better than lay them on my poor dear John. Cold-hearted that you are ! Lili. That poisoned ring ! O me ! how near and with what tempting ease In this his darkest hour doth death invite ! yoan. Be't as you will ; my time serves not to wait Till you have done with mumbling. I must go SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 143 And sort my wardrobe o'er, and see how best I may array myself to meet my guests, The lords and ladies now beneath my roof. \Exit. Lilt. Death in so small a compass and so near ! Prescribed by his own father ! O bad father, Blot upon nature ! who could thus foresee His son's dire need, yet 'gainst that bitter time Provide nought else than death. Nought else than death ? Nay, but that disused lodge — was not that left To be provision for him in his want ? ' When I shall stand a beggar 'neath the sky. That roof shall give me shelter.' Thus he said, And laughed to think the will had so decreed. Why then, his father meant him not to die ! Peace, foolish heart, peace — ^let me think. His father With his last breath bestowed on him that ring. And said if e'er his sky was quite o'ercast He was to break the stone, and underneath Should he find comfort. Why not life and hope Rather than death ? surely a likelier pledge To be bequeathed by a father to a son. that I had but some authority To counsel him ! and bid him break that stone, 1 being at his side, to watch, and dash The poison from his hand if poison 'twere. Might it not be I could bring this to pass ? Perchance. O aid me, Heav'n, and comfort him. [Exit. 144 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act ii. Enter Lord and Lady Fitzwater, Hubert, Geral- DiNE, Sir Rufus Rollestone, Amabel, Lettice, and other Guests, Musicians following. Lady F. What bus'ness 'tis that keeps him I know not, But unto me he sends expressly word His absence for a while must in no wise Be hindrance to your pleasures, or put off The looked-for dance. So in his name I pray you Choose partners and begin. Music, strike up. \They dance. Enter Lionel, John of the ?iCAIje.s following. Lion. Break off — let silence be. Your pardon, friends ; But I have that to say which till 'tis said Bums in my throat. Lady F. Alas ! my lord, what is't? Lion. And yet as hard to tell as keep untold — You being all my friends, to whom my griefs Are even as your own. Lady F. O but yet tell. Hub. We'll strive our best to bear. Sir Ruf. We will be strong. Lion. Know then, a beggar stands before you here — A landless, houseless beggar. Lct,dy F. • What means this ? O now I see — a jest. SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 145 Lord F. Faith, a good jest. Sir Ruf. Or would be good if 'twere not beggarly. Hub. When next you try the appetite of belief, Offer a smaller mouthful. Lion. Have you ne'er Heard a voice speak from a sad heart before, That now you know it not ? I say again I am a beggar, out of land and goods Tricked by yon villain, who of all you see Is master and disposer. yohn. 'Tis quite true, Dear lords and ladies, though so strange it seems — True, I mean, I am master ; which, I take it, Is the point of chief concern. Lion. Ay, true, all true. He hath spent, and let me spend, till from my store The last round coin hath rolled (surely made round To roll the easier) ; and, more than this, Hath tied my hands so to my sides with debt I cannot reach them forth for timely aid. And must stand by and see a bond enforced That gives to him the house and lands of Linne. John. Yes, if before this hour to-morrow night Those five-and-twenty thousand crowns you owe Be not paid back in full — my little all. Lion. Thus stands it, friends. You see, a desp'rate case. \A pause, during which the Guests look at each other, and whisper. 146 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act ii. \Aside?^ Poor girl, poor love ; I dare not lift my eyes To where she is, as one who stabs himself, Yet turns away from looking on the wound. \To Amabel, who stands near him.\ Tell me, how fares the Lady Geraldine ? Amdb. I will go comfort her. O my sweet friend ! Lett. Need I say how I pity ? Geral. You need not — Nor pity one who pities not herself Lion. [Aside.l I knew not how she loved me, or how true She spake, saying that gold to her was dross. Come, for her sake 1 will be strong as she. [A/oud.] Your silence, friends, well shows you think the time Too short for help to reach me. LordF, Why indeed I see not how, in four-and-twenty hours To be quite plain with you, as sure I am You wish us to be plain, I cannot think You have been wholly prudent. Hub. Rankest folly To put such trust in others ! 'Tis so easy To keep account oneself of what one owes. Sir Ruf. Had you been earlier open with your friends ! There would have then been time for us to give Advice that might have saved. Lion. But now, I see, . SCENE I.J 7 HE HEIR OF LINNE. 147 'Tis all too late for friendship's self to help — And trust me, though time served you to redeem My lands, as well I know you fain would do, I ne'er had suffered you to have your will At any peril of your own grave loss. The folly hath been mine, and mine must be The paying of the forfeit. Lord F. On my word, A noble spirit. Sir Ruf. From my lord of Linne I looked for nothing less, yet must admire. Lion. And now that of my state you know the worst. You next shall learn my hopes, the arms wherewith I look to vanquish Fortune ; for be sure While I have friends — or others peradventure. Called by a dearer name — who still will deign To wish me well, I'll wrestle for their sake Till I have slain my troubles or they me, Yea, strive to tame disaster for my slave To help me to new wealth, which I'll go forth Into the world to conquer with the sword Of love and hope. Lord F. An excellent resolve ! Sir Ruf. Wherein all our best wishes shall be yours. Lion. Thanks. If those wishes have borne fruit or not Before three years are over shall you know ; 148 THE HEIR OF LTNNE. [act ii. For three years being ended, with no sight Or news of me, conclude me either dead Or of my hopes fall'n short, and look no more To see me in your midst. And thou, who once Wert to have been the sunshine of my home, Think thyself free, when those three years are done. To make bright with thy smiles another's hearth ; Longer I would not have thy fair young life Wasted with bootless waiting. Lady F. But my lord. Since to my daughter still you seem to ascribe Part in your fortunes, you will pardon me If I should ask you what the surety is For their so speedy mending. Lion. Chiefly, madam, Strong heart and hands, by love made stronger. Lady F. Ah ! Lion. The gold I hope one day to dower her with Is now stored up in that new fairer world Mariners tell us of beyond the west, The treasure-house of earth, rich with the glow Of million sunsets — there will I go seek My second fortune, or, it may be, chance To find it on the seas, where Spanish galleons Crowd sail at sight of the smallest English bark. Lady F. A little scattered, sir, it seems to lie. Lion. Not long ago I held discourse with one Who in those lands and waters of the west Had made himself from poor in brief space rich, SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 149 And who so took my ear his prisoner With things he told me — of balm-breathing groves Where birds like jewels sparkle in and out, And many-coloured skies that blend and change With the blushing hills their blushes — then again Of the crash of oak 'gainst oak, and steel 'gainst steel, And the scared cry of Spaniards to their saints, And, following soon, the full-voiced English cheer Telling of victory, and good gold won From use of foreign foes — ^with things like these He so ensnared my fancy that well-nigh He made me wish my fortune still to seek. Sir Ruf. [Aside.] A modest wish, soon granted. Zion. He I speak of — A wealthy burgher now — a few years since Had only in the world his own stout heart, And a poor patrimony of no more Than some two thousand crowns, but these enough To equip and man the bark that made him heir Of far-off Indian kings and Spanish dons. Now I, you see, am strong, and of a spirit, I trust, to dare as much as any dare ; So with two thousand crowns I hope to make My fortunes equal his. These still I lack. But shall not long, I know, when once I say That of my friends I wiU not shame to ask A petty loan that will not do them hurt. Which of you all will lend two thousand crowns ? Or give ; since it may be that death, belched up ISO THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act ii. By angry seas, or slung by foeman's hand, Will make my bond a mock. Which of you ? speak. \A pause. I see you think it is for me to choose Whom I will have for helper, and in truth Where I know all to be so much my friends, By making choice of one I need not fear To give the rest oifence. Hubert Fitzwater, To you in this great need I bring my suit. Both since you are my brother, and because I did you lately a good turn, which now I should be churlish if I gave you not Occasion to requite. Hub. What ! taunt me, sir, With favours past ? I have just now at hand No more than what for present use I need ; But let me say, if aught could make me fling Your favours back into your teeth, 'twere this. Lion. I do confess that when I asked of you Most gravely I mistook ; yet pray believe, To taunt you I meant not. Sir Rufus RoUestone, In the shrill-voiced hunting-field, and at the board Where wine makes warm, you long have been my friend. Nor now that sport and feast for me are done Will be aught other. Those two thousand crowns Whereon I build my hopes I ask of you. Nor shame -to ask. Sir Ruf. Of me ! Upon my life, More sorry am I than I well can say, SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 15-1 But I have paid away of late such sums That new estate I bought — and then some wine I've just laid down — and, to confess the truth, I scarce can see my way Lion. Yet in your place Methinks I could have found one. Nay, not now — Although you offered now, I would not take. Sir Ruf. I offer not ; would only that I could In justice to myself. Lion. Will none else speak ? Not one among them all ? O now I find What I knew not before — a poor man's friends In justice to themselves must all be poor. Why then, my Lord Fitzwater, unto you, ' Whom I thought not to trouble, must I turn. You who perchance less easily can spare Than some of those, who will not. Lord F. And who said I could not spare ? you take upon yourself To speak strange things. It doth indeed fall out That at this moment — most unhappily — At this, especial moment Lady F. At this moment He hath to think of the welfare of his child. So can do nought to help the hopes of one Whose suit he favours not, and doth forbid. Is it not so, my lord ? Lord F. 'Twas even thus I was about to say. 152 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act ii. Lion. You would deny me All chance of winning her ? Lady F, Most absolutely, As a suitor quite unfit. Lord F. O quite unfit. Lion, feut your denial, sir, and, madam, yours, I will not take ; 'tis she, and only she, Whose sentence I will stand by. Geraldine, Betrothed, belovfed, speak ; will you not wait A poor three years, to see if for your sake I cannot force from Fortune's hand as much As will, with my great love, make up a tribute That, at your feet laid, your love will not scorn ? Answer, and for the battle give me strength. Geral. My parents have for me made answer, sir, Whereby, as is my duty, I abide. Lion. Because it is your duty, not your will ? Nay, then, if still you love me, I have right To claim you still for mine, my bride, my queen. Whom in the citadel of my love I'll hold 'Gainst all the opposing world. That duty's none Which bids you break your heart. Geral. O but I hope My heart is framed less weakly than you deem, And since you thus constrain me to speak plain, I tell you, sir, I can as easily Put from my heart one that in false disguise Hath sought to enter there, as from my person SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 153 This token of my all too simple trust And his deceit. \pisengages a ring from her chain, and throws it down. Lionel mechanically does the same, then looks round, as one bewildered. Lion. They have the faces still Of men and women. I should say I dreamed, But that of men and women I ne'er thought So ill that I could dream such things as these. Now am I taught, and see that men and women Are only devils loosed awhile on earth For holiday, and making masquerade In hired-out scraps and shreds of virtuousness, Put on and off like clothes, save that the clothes Are better fitting. Hence from out my sight. Ye hideous rout, nor bring my house to shame With the nakedness of your vile souls laid bare. Sir Ruf. Is it of us he speaks ? Lady F. • He must be mad. Lion. Away, I say ; pollute not more my roof With steam of your false breaths ; they turn me sick. How ! still you stay ? 1 well-nigh forgot What you, I see, remember — that no more I'm master in this house ; you are right, quite right ; Here is your host, to whom such guests as you Will, I doubt not, be welcome. jFohn. Ay indeed, Kind lords and ladies, will you but vouchsafe Your gracious presence for a few brief days. 154 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act ii. 'Twould make me proud for ever ; and the same I know that I may say for my poor wife, Would it but please you so to honour us. Lord F. Very well worded, and well mattered too. Now there's a man who for his state in life Hath always seemed stamped with a certain stamp. Lady F. For me, though none, I hope, more loth than I To meddle with the bounds 'twixt high and low, Still I would say that when it once hath chanced One of the common sort hath raised himself Above the common sort, it then becomes A kind of duty to encourage him. Sir Ruf. So say I too. Good man, we'll be your guests As long as it shall please you. jl^ohn. O I know Not half so long as that can you withdraw From your own sphere your light to shine in mine; But yet a little while, a few brief days, I hope you will not grudge me, and I'll strive My best to be content. \To Lionel, who is laughing^ And you, my lord. Whom I am glad with all my heart to see In such a mirthful vein, if you will please Bestow on me your honoured company. You'll find a welcome wait, and may indeed Command me in all reasonable things. No man shall say that I, when I was up. SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 155 Forgot you once were up and I was down ; Nor shall you ever see me take offence At being thereof reminded. LordF. A good fellow, With a simple humble heart. Johii. I see my lord Holds me in too much scorn to be my guest ; Be't even so. Yet truly for to-night None but your lordship's self is here the host, Since of this house for four-and-twenty hours You still are master. Lion. All my need, I hope, Of house, or food, or fire, or aught besides, In four-and-twenty hours will be at end. Begin to play your part of master now ; It doth divert me much. Where else in the world Could such host match such guests ? Why, anywhere, In ev'ry part beneath the sun where dwells The hind-leg-walking beast. It seems not yet I have learned my lesson quite, but soon I shall. Out on you ! out ! O how my very soul Doth heave with hate and loathing of you all. You swine, you wolves, you compounds of things vilest On earth and under earth, you serpents, devils — Nay, worse yet, men and women. Lady F. [To John.] Pray you, sir, Whither shall we withdraw ? It is not fit Our eaTS should be so sullied. M iS6 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act ii yohn. Faith, 'twere best For him and us to leave him to himself. This way, sweet ladies, this way, honoured sirs ; By me and my poor wife you will find spared No pains to make you welcome. Lady F. Honest friend ! [Exeuni all except Lionel. Lion. I said I hated them, but I have cause As much to hate myself. I am man too. Made of the self-same flesh and blood as they. shame not to be borne — nor shall it long ; There is a way to 'scape. Father, wise father. How well you knew the world you left me in. When, as your last and richest legacy. You gave me means to quit it 1 Yet perchance Not the best means, or surest ; by my side 1 have another friend that might methinks Deal quicker — sharper at the first maybe. But who will use no dallying with my pain, Who will be brief if bidden to be brief. Come forth, thou trusty one. \He unsheathes his sword. At the same time, un- noticed by him, a curtain is drawn at the back of the stage,, shmving a window standing open, with a moon-lit garden beyond. In the opening appears Lilias, veiled. Ay, in this point A med'cining virtue dwells that hath not lost Its strength by keeping — sharp and swift and sure. SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 157 If driv'n but deep enough, by an arm well nerved With hate and utter scorn, such scorn as mine For one who would have been like all his kind Save for his greater folly. Friend, prepare ; I never gave thee yet man's blood to drink. But now thou shalt be red with it all thy length, Though I shall not behold. Lili. [ Who has glided forward till she stands almost at his side.'] Put up thy sword. Lion. Spirit ! Lili. Put up thy sword. Lion. See, I obey ; But wherefore heed me ? Lili. Swear that ne'er again Thou give this purpose entrance in thy soul, And shame to think it hath been ever there. Thy life is not thine own, since on thyself Thou hast conferred it not, and is but held In trust for the giver, whom in rifling jt Thou foully dost betray. Lion. A. trust by me Not asked for, and imposed without my will. Lili. Ay, but, by thee accepted since imposed More times than thou canst number. Thou hast ne'er Held up thy face rejoicing to the glow Of morning sun or evening, or been glad To feel the west wind's kisses on thy cheek, Or joyed in the breath of sweet flowers after rain. But that thou even then didst bind thyself iS8 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act ii. To bear life's ills with patience, as with pleasure Thou didst receive its goods. Swear that ne'er more Thou'lt seek to make rebellion 'gainst the bond By thee so oft contracted. Lion. Spirit, I swear. Since thou dost bid me, though thou bidst me break The counsel that my dying father gave. Lilt. And canst thou think thy dying father coun- selled Self-murder to his son ? Lion. This ring Lili. That ring He gave thee, saying that behind the stone Thou shouldst find comfort in thy darkest need. Hast thou yet sought it there ? Lion. No. But what comfort Save death Lili. Obey him. Break the stone and look. [Lionel strikes his ring with the hilt of his sword. Well, and thou findest Lion. A small folded square Of yellow parchment. Lili. Open heedfully ; What see' St thou ? Lion. Some few lines of writing. Lili. Read. Lion. [Reading:'] I left thee foolish, now I find thee wise. Schooled in the school of the world with tears and sighs ; SCENE I.] 7 HE HEIR OF LINNE. 159 Now therefore, son, I trust thee with the store I feared to leave to thy untaught hands before. Hie to the hut forlorn that still is thine, And dig, and thou shalt see a treasure shine Etcher than all thou hast lost, nor lost in vain. Since now thy loss turns doubly to thy gain. Mine eyes read well the words, but scarce I know If my understanding right interprets them. Lili. It doth — that thou art rich again, and great ; Bow down thy head in thanks to gracious Heaven That plucks thee back from death to better life. [Lionel holds down his head, covering his face with his hands. Lilias slowly retreats towards the window. When she has reached it, he looks up. Lion. And to thee, spirit — thee, Heav'n's mes- senger. O leave me not ; test first my thankfulness With what command thou wilt, and I'll obey. Lili. Make of thy second wealth a wiser use Than of thy first ; be happy, and farewell. \Exit. Lion. Happy she bids me be ! Ay, if I can — If not, at least avenged on the race of man. The Curtain falls. End of Act II. ACT III. ' And he pulled forth the bags of gold, And laid them down upon the board ; All woe-begone was John of the Scales, So vexed he could say never a word.' SCENE I.J THE HEIR OF LINNE. i6i ACT III. scene: I. A BaHqueting-room. John and Joan discovered, presiding at opposite ends of a supper-table, round which are assembled Lord and LadyFitzwater, Hubert, Geraldine, Sir Rufus RoLLESTONE, Amabel, Lettice, andtheother Guests — Servants in attendance. Lord F. Since I must give the toast, friends, here it is. And in its honour fill your glasses high. To our worthy honest host and his good dame Health and long life. All. Health and long life ! [All drink. yohn. Too much ! Such favour to myself and my poor wife I know not how to thank you for. jfoan. John. jFohn. Love y^oan. You need not always now say your poor wife J i62 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act m. To make us worse than what we are is scarce Good manners to our guests. yohn. Well, it may be Not now so very poor — not in one way ; But all too poor in words, the silver change Of the golden gratitude stored up within. Lord F. Very well put. yohn. O we both know our place, Both I and my poor Joan. John. John. I and my wife — And know what honour you bestow on us. You that are lords and ladies born on the height, In being guests of ours, we who have toiled Our upward way, and made the bread we eat With sweat of our own brows. yoan. 'Tis but a figure, You'll understand, sweet ladies — though for meals He might have found a better. jLady F. Nay, good dame. No need to excuse ; I love the honest ring Of his rough rugged speech. jFoan. Your ladyship Thinks him so very rough ? Yet let me say, Honest and rough and rugged as he looks, He's not an atom more so in his heart Than the smoothest of them all. Lady F. 1 doubt not. yoan. He puts not all his varnish and deceit SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 163 On his outside, like that young coxcomb lord Who sat in yonder place till yesterday — More daintily trimmed up, and combed and curled. And softer-spoken maybe Sir Ruf, Softer-spoken ! Such hard words as he cudgelled us withal I never felt before. What of him now? Know you if still he holds his lonely state In the lodging left him by his father's care ? yohn. Ay, as I think. A while ago I sent One of my serving-men to ask if aught There was he wished for and that I could give — For, as you know, I bear him no ill-will Lord F. O surely not. John. Nay, rather pity him With my whole heart. Sir Ruf. As truly do we all. Lady F. O all. John. But with harsh voice and rough he bade My messenger begone. Joan. Ay — ^with such airs As I might give myself with one who came To ask, not to bestow. Hub. And since last night Out of that crazy kennel he hath not stirred ? John. E'en so. Amab. For me, I always thought him strange. i64 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act m. Geral. As with the father so with the son, it seems. Lord F. I marvel he could trust himself to sleep In such a place — so damp and so unaired. yohn. I know not if he slept ; they say all night His light was seen to burn. Sir Ruf. Asleep or wake, He will be damp enough if he but try That hole a second night ; hark to the rain. Raining as though Heav'n fain would put out Lett. Nay ! Sir Ruf. The other place. Against such rain as this Yon roof will serve no better than a sieve. Hub. And the wind too ! enough to crumple up His hovel to the shape of a grape-skin squeezed. Lerd F. 'Tis a wild night indeed, and fit to chill him To the bones with cold and damp. \To a Servant.] I pray you draw That screen a little closer. Sir Ruf. And by now He must feel pinched for want of food and drink. This way the flagon, please. ILord F. I'll have more too ; This wine is excellent good. Ay, as you say, He must be hard put to it, and in -sooth My heart is sore with pity. jfohn. Mine the same — SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 165 Though the fault is all his own if aught he lacks. Another log, to keep the chill air out. Lord F. With perfect comfort and enjoyment, friend, I fear you mean to spoil us. Enter Lilias. Hub. Lo where comes A dainty lass, to add to our good cheer. Right welcome are you, fair one. Lili. [To John.] 'Tis with you I come to speak. Hu6. Will you not sit ? here's room. Zord F. Our worthy host's relation, is't not so ? yohn. A kind of a relation, sir, but poor- Nay, very poor. Lord F. Not an uncommon kind. yoan. One we had pity on, and have bred up For sake of charity. Lord F. That's a rarer sort. Sir Fuf. Rare ! nay, a phenix. Sit you down, fair maid. jfoan. You may, since you are asked, though you might sure Be comelier apparelled for our feast. Lili. I came not for your feast, but to deliver A prayer I'm charged with to my uncle John. yohn. And whose prayer may that be ? Lili. Poor old Tom Tod's. 1 66 THE HEIR OF LTNNE. [act hi. Word hath been sent him on your part to-day That he must give his little holding up To his next neighbour, who doth covet it. yohn. And who besides can pay the rent thereof, Which your Tom cannot. Lili. Yet if you but heard How sore he pleads ! If he must leave the home That hath been his so long, he fain must house, He and his daughter and his daughter's babes. In the cold roofless fields, with the wind-pierced hedge His warmest shelter. yohn. Can he pay his rent ? Lili. Will you not see him ? if you heard his tale 'Twould move you surely. Through the gath'ring storm He hath journeyed all these miles, and now awaits Your pleasure, so mishandled and tired out With boist'rous buffets of the blust'ring wind On his shrivelled grey outside, and with the pinch Of inward sorrow, that to look at him And grant his suit were one. yohn. Good reason then For looking at him not. I have already Made bargain with his neighbour. Honoured sirs, You do not drink. 'jfoan. I marvel how you dare Disturb our entertainment of our guests With such like toys and trash. Lili. Because a chance Of doing good, or mending one's own wrong, SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 167 Is as a treasure, which by my neglect I'd not have any lose. Will you not take ? 'Tis offered still — but for how long who knows ? jFohn. You have my answer, and shall have none else. Sit down and eat and drink, and plague no more. Lili. Your pardon; I'll go comfort as I may, Yon poor old man — till better comfort comes. [Astde.l Strange that so long it tarries. [Exit. yohn. Not indeed, I hope, your honours, that I cannot be Soft-hearted with the best, but to do aught Tending to foster 'mong the common sort A spirit of indolence and servitude, Of leaning upon others for their aid, Is what we should be very careful of. Lord F. Just so, just so ; too careful none can be. Sir Ruf. 'Tis what I always say. Lord F. That delicate sense Of rough, rude, sturdy, stubborn independence, A sense so delicate and so easly marred. And yet the poor man's chiefest ornament O very careful. Sir Ruf. 'Tis like taking up The butterfly to cherish and admire. And rubbing off the bloom. Lord F. There is a kind Of selfishness about it. yohn. So in truth i68 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act hi. I am constrained to think — but my poor lord, He heeded not these things, and, as I fear, Hath done much harm that I must strive to cure. Lord F. He had no judgment. Sir Ruf. No reflection. Hub. None. Lady F. I cannot pardon folly like to his. Lord F. O greatly to be blamed. yohn. I am afraid He must be blamed — yet I feel for him much. Lord F. And I too ; who would not ? this is a case Wherein the more one blames the more one feelsw yohn. Ay, and the more one feels the more one blames ; 'Tis even so. Lord F. Precisely. jFohn. It appears I ne'er can hope to see him in this life, But you are present, sirs, to hear me say, As without fear I may, that the one thing To my contentment lacking is the face Of my poor lost young lord. Enter Lionel. Lion, And here it is, To fill your measure of enjoyment full. Why, how is this ? you seem not so well pleased As from your speech I hoped. SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 169 yohn. , O yes, well pleased, In faith exceeding pleased — but, I confess, Ta'en something by surprise. And if you think What words you laid upon us all last night. You scarce can wonder that you find us now For your return a little unprepared. yoan. Or I might even say much unprepared. Lord F. Truly 'tis very sudden. Lion. But I hope Not quite unwelcome ? yohn. O I would not say Unwelcome — nay, not altogether so. Be pleased to sit, and lay aside your cloak. Lord F. Indeed you had best ; it must be damp, I know. [Lionel throws off his cloak, and sits down. Lion.. How shall I give my good friends thanks enough For kindness so o'erwhelming ? yohn. Well, perchance There are not many would be found so willing To lend the hand of fellowship again Where but last night it met with doubled fist. You have hurt me in my feelings much, my lord, And I must hope you'll bear in mind henceforth I have a right to enjoyment of my own ; And that for you to feel dislike thereof Only because it chances what is now Mine, once was yours, is not quite reasonable. I70 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act iii. Lord F. You must see that yourself. Upon my word 'Tis excellently argued, Lion. Not maybe Quite reasonable, yet surely natural, And to be pardoned. y^okn. Natural or not, You cannot say that if I have your land, It was not bought and paid for with hard gold ; You made the bargain, and must stand by it As patiently as I. Lion. A better bargain Methinks for you than me. yohn. O as for that, It pleases you to say so — but, dear ladies, Did you only know Acres enough, I grant. But so uncared for and so profitless. Held by such pampered tenants Witness all, I would I had my good gold back again, And he his land ; that safely may I say. Lion. 'Twere shame to keep you waiting for your wish. \To a Seniant. Ho ! friend, that bag I trusted to your charge — Bring here, and lay it on the board, in front Of Master John of the Scales. \The Servant places a bag before John.] Now have you back Your gold, and I my land ; though, as I think, Poor as your bargain was, you'd hold it fast Were the four-and-twenty hours of grace run out ; SCENE I.] THE HEIR OF LJNNE. 171 But since they yet are not, why, yours is yours. And mine is mine again. • ' jfohn. What meaning's here I cannot fathom. Lion. You need only fathom To the bottom of that bag ; there will you find My meaning clear enough. yohn. [Openifig the bag7\ Tt looks like coin — But cannot be, you know. yoaii. \Rising, and coming round to John.J O, cannot be — Against all reason. Bite them, ring them. What ! Good ? You're a fool, and know not good from bad. Give here. And if it chances this is good. That proves not for the rest. yohn. And who shall say They are right counted either.? Lion. Count and weigh, And bite and ring ; no error shall you find! \To the others.^ How now, dear friends ! I see amazement in you Wrestles with joy which shall be uppermost ; Let it be joy, I pray, for know, the gold That there you see is to the store behind But as a little spilling on the road From an o'erloaded wain. You thought me rich. But all my riches were as poverty To the wealth which for me had been from me hid. And in safe keeping lay beneath the floor N 172 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act iii. Of the ruined hut that I in folly mocked. Lord F. Let me congratulate Lion. How well I knew That I might count upon you all to hail My strangely mended fortunes ! And I see — See by your faces blossoming into smiles, And lips with friendship ready to o'erflow, Like rivers in the sunshine of the spring — That I mistook you not. Lord F. Of that be sure ; So glad I never was. Sir Ruf. In faith, nor I. Hub. Old friend, I give you joy. Lion. No need to tell. I read your hearts in the eyes of all of you. And see that I require not e'en to excuse My churlishness last night, since with your pardon 'Tis blotted out already. Lady F. Nay, my lord. There ne'er was aught to pardon. I^rd F. All my sorrow Was that I could not for the moment lay My hand on the little sum Lion. Think not of that. Hub. For me, remorse hath pricked me ever since I was so quick to take offence for nought. But, as you know, 'tis the highest-mettled horse That's put the easiest out. Lion. True, very true ; SCENE I.J THE HEIR OF LINNE. 173 Who that knows aught of horses knows not this ? Sir Ruf. I lay awake pondering all the night How I might let you have that loan, and think I now have found a way, if you have still The least occasion Lion. How am I to thank ? But now my need is past. O my kind friends, Seek not to make excuse ; I know how deep It cut your faithful hearts to be constrained Aught to deny me. Lord F. That in truth it did. Lion. And one is here whose pain must sure have been Sharpest of all, since to her lot it fell To deal the heaviest stroke. Fair Geraldine, Was this not so ? But O before you speak, That struggling sigh, escaping with such force From the white prison of your breast, betrays What then you suffered and what then you hid. Geral. I will not say, my lord, but that last night It cost me much to speak the words I did ; Yet what could I choose else, being commanded By father and by mother ? Lion. What indeed ? Sweet maid and pure — sweet as thrice-sugared milk. And pure as the white froth thrown up by the sea. The froth that Venus sprang from. And now, friends, That I have looked to the bottom of your souls. And stirred to the depths the filthy reeking slime 174 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act m. Of hidden putrefaction that doth make Your surface shine so fair and iris-like, Now have I done with you, and am content That from my presence and my house you go With all the speed you may. Lord F. Here is some jest, But one that I confess doth need for me To be unriddled. Lion. I'll unriddle straight. Hence from my roof before your foulness breed A pestilence in the air ! How now ! if speech Hath lost its meaning for your ears, I'll find Another way to deal. Here are my servants, Who will obey me now I am rich again. Good fellows, do you see that company , Of smell-feast lords and ladies, and that pair Counting their money? Out with them forthwith From my sight and from my doors. Haul them or push. Or whip — I care not what — but out with them This moment from my house. > A Servant. This moment, sir? Alas ! it rains just now so that well-nigh It seems that one might swim from earth to heaven. Lion. Although this dwelling were the one firm point In the black deep of space, they should not stay. Hence with them, .hence — or with my sword I'll help. ^Drawing. SCENE II.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 175 Lord F. No need, no need ; we are going. [ To the otfters.\ Pray you haste ; We shall be murdered else. Farewell, sweet lord ; Believe, we would not thwart you for the world. yohn. Not for the world, my lord. Methought I heard A coin that rolled but 'tis no matter — nay. Not for the world. 'yoan. Can you not make more speed ? Lion. [Seating himself as the rest go outi\ Fare- well, friends all, farewell ; I kiss your hands. [Exeunt all except Lionel. So, 'tis well done. Thus is the war declared. The war that ne'er shall cease 'twixt me and men. [The Scene closes. SCENE II. A Corridor. Enter Lord and Lady Fitzwater, Hubert, and Geraldine, with Servants rolling along chests and bales. Lady F. You are sure we take away all that we brought ? And the gifts too ? no need to leave behind Aught that is ours, whether it hath been ours Long time or short. Geral. I've ta'en all mine. 176 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act iil Huh And I. Lord F. Haxk to the wind; it howls about the, house As a wolf that hungers for us. Enter Sir Rufus Rollestone, Amabel, and Lettice. And to think That I must travel such a night as this ! A night indeed when one would almost need Sailors for coachmen. Amab. You are not, my lord, The only one ; we have to travel too, We who gave not perchance so much offence As some of you. Lett. My feathers will be spoiled. Geral. I marvel any are of soul so tame That they can wish to tarry in a house Where insult hath been done them. As for me, I long to shake its dust from off my feet. Sir Ruf. You'll not have far to go before the dust Will be most thoroughly laid. Enter another Servant. Ser. My master sends To know the reason of this tarrying. Lord F. You told him of the horror that I had Of the rain-soaked air ? Ser. Ay. SCENE II.] TH& HEIR OF LINN E. 177 ' Lord F. And he said ? Ser. He laughed. Lord F. Laughed ! Str. And in very truth the dampest air Were safer for you than his wrath to-night. Lord F. I'm ready, friend. My coach waits ? Ser. Ay my lord ; [To Sir Rufus.] And yours, sir, too. LordF. Pray help me with my cloak. Enter '^on's and ]oAi>i, laden with packages. Ser. How now ! you twain yet here ! 'Twere best make haste, Unless you'd have my lord come forth himself To speed your parting. yohn. We are going now ; Can you not see? Would you, but deign, kind friends. To lend us in the coach of one of you A little, little room ; or else must I, I and my wife yoan. And his poor wife yohn. Go forth Uncovered in the storm. Lord F. Are the shawls stowed ? Ser. Ay, and all else, • This way. 178 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act rii, yohn. Will you not, friends ? \JExeunt all except John and Joan. Pursed-up-mouthed wretches ! yoan. Well, I hope you see The fool you were ever to pay your court To such as these. A scornful staring set. Who if they sheltered in your house from a shower Would bid you wipe your own chair ere they sat. yohn. I pay my court to them ! 'twas you, not I ; I held them in too much contempt. yoan. I say 'Twas you, and you had best say otherwise. For me, I scorned them always. John. Let it be ; And think with me of what is now to do. y^oan.' To foot it in the rain. John. Ay, ay, but thus We may come sooner to four walls and a roof Than peradventure those proud-stomached ones, For all their coaches — and high horses too. We'll cross the little foot-bridge up the stream. And of the farmer on the other side Ask shelter for the night ; he'll not deny While we have this to show. [Tapping his money-bag. What ! cheer up, wife. We've much to live for yet — indeed no less Than five-and-twenty thousand golden crowns. y^oaii. And that is true enough. SCENE II.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 179 yohn. A truth we hold, A truth that nought can ever make us lose. Enter Lilias. What ! girl ! is't you ? I had well-nigh forgot That we must take you too. You conje in time ; Help us with some of these. Lilt. Nay, I come not To share your journey, but to bid farewell. There is none now to whose bounty you can turn To pay you what I cost, nor am I willing To be on yours a burden. yoan. 'Tis a feeling Finer than I had looked for. But yet come ; You've learned my ways, and of a serving-maid I shall have need, I hope. Come then, nor fear But I shall give you work. Lili. Your pardon, nay — Another service I will rather take, And go forth on my way alone to seek. ^, And till I find it, why, this brooch, the gift Of our kind lord, will keep me at least in bread. Joaji. Well, saw you e'er unthankfulness like this? A girl whose helplessness we fed and warmed At our own hearth — or if not quite our own, 'Twas all the same — and now that she hath learned To be of some slight use, she turns her back ! 'jFohn. Monstrous ingratitude ! But the more I live, The more I see the hollowness of the world. i8o THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act in. Re-enter Servant. Ser. What ! loiter yet ! Nay, then, I must fetch whips. y^ohn. No, no, we go, you see we go. Ser. I see, And still will see, until I see you out. jFohn. O vile, ungrateful, bad, base, wicked world ! \Exeunt John and ]oMf, followed by Servant. Lilt. And now must I go too, and lead my life Far from this place and him. A dreary life. As drear as blindness fall'n a second time On one who once hath from afar beheld The sunlight shining on the fields, and longed — An autumn life, fed but on memories, Save that with me summer hath never been. What ! can I murmur ? I who see myself Bless'd more than e'er in dreams I thought to be, I who have been his rescuer from death. And giv'n him back again to life and hope — Is't not enough for me ? What though no more I look him in the eyes ? So long he lives, And in his life takes joy, so long he is mine — ■ Mine though he knows it not, and ne'er shall know. Enter Tom Tod. Tom. O me ! what shall I do ? what shall I do ? Lili. Friend Tom ! How now ! have you not heard the news? SCENE II.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. i8i That our good lord has come to his own again, And wrong shall be made right ? Tom. Come to his own ! Ay, but the devil first has come to him. Lili. Tom ! What means this ? I say our lord is back ; Find him, and all is well. Tom. But I have found. And all is ill. Lilt. You tell me you have asked His leave to keep your farm, and been denied ? Tonii 'Tis what I tell you, and 'tis what is true. I'm lost and ruined, ruined and undone, Like a stocking ravelled down from knee to toe — And the poor children too, like little socks. Lili. Weep not, weep not ; some error sure is here. You saw him not yourself? Tom. Ay, but I did. They told me he had bid them keep me out. But I would not believe, and past them pushed. And down before him fell upon my knees. Lili. And he ? Tom. Looked up from leaning on his hand. And bade me take my loathly face away — He said, my loathly face. Lili. How could he ? Tom. Yes, i82 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act hi. I wondered too. And then he said, ' Begone For an old hypocrite.' Lili. But he knew not The need that you were in ? Tom. 'Tis true I scarce Could speak for shaking, yet I told him all — That my next neighbour had got leave to take My farm, and if 'twere ta'en I must go starve ; But when I had done he only scowled, and said He would not lift a little finger up To keep from starying all that walked the earth Upon two legs, so be they were not birds. Lili. Hejestedthen. Tom. Like jesting he looked not. But cruel as I ne'er had seen him yet. And after that, I thought my only chance Would be to bring to bis mind how I had once Held him a baby in my arms, and kissed His little cheek as soft as duckling's down. And so I did — but he, he swore an oath, And said that what I said made him ashamed E'er to have been a baby. These indeed Were his very words, and then I felt, as 'twere, A kind of ball roll up and down my throat. And could not answer aught, and came away. Lili. He that was once so good ! Tom. Can you not help ? And yet how can you ? Nay, 'tis sure enough SCENE III.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 183 I must go starve, and the sooner I begin The sooner I shall finish. LUi. Help ! I help ! Help you ! help him ! O if I could ! And yet — Maybe Tom, I will try. Get you again To the fire, and warm youj and await my news. I'll try. Tom. Heav'n bless and prosper you ! LUi. Amen. \Exeunt, SCENE in. The Banqwting-room of Scene I. Lionel discovered sitting as before. Lion. Ay, there is still some pleasure in my life, That life I must not part with, and am doomed To wear till it rots from me ; but I see It hath some joys yet left — the joy at least Of griping fast mine own, and with a ' No ' Baffling the arts of fawners and of liars. I used to think 'twas only sweet to give ; But to deny to greed, to send away Hypocrisy chop-fall'n, and flattery With its crisp smirk damped out — to have the thing That all men covet, and to hold it tight — This" is a pleasure of a daintier taste, And one that uses not its own means up. 1 84 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act hi. But, being indulged in, leaves the epicure As able for indulgence as before. Enter a Servant. What would you ? Am I never to have rest From sight of a man's face ? Ser. I humbly crave Your honour's pardon, but I come to know What 'tis your honour's pleasure we should do With the lords and ladies who were late your guests, And who have sent to entreat Lion. Ha ! they dare stay When I have bid them go ? Ser. Nay, good my lord, They went long since, but are come back again. The river hath o'erflowed, and choked the roads. So that with peril they were forced to turn Their halfdrowned coaches back, and now make prayer For a night's shelter underneath your roof. Lion. And what are they that I should heed their prayer ? Ser. They are very cold, my lord, and comfort- less, And with no other cover from the storm Than the coaches wherein dismally they sit. Lion. Let them still sit in their coaches, and be glad. SCENE III.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. iSg Away, torment me not. Stay, yet a word^ The horses, if they will, they may undo, And in the stables house ; those beasts are dumb. And have not learned from one another guile. Stand not and stare, but go. Ser. [Aside.] What change is here ! [Exif. Enter another Servant. Lion. Another man ! Ser. 'Tis not my fault, my lord. I am sent by John and Joan of the Scales, Tq implore you and beseech Lion. Am I defied In mine own house ? I bade you drive them forth, And am I not yet rid of them ? Ser. Indeed We did our best, my lord, and made them go ; But with them hath the storm played battledore, And sent them back again. Lion. Then let your whips Play battledore upon the other side. Out with them from my house. Ser. Nay, in your house Without your lordship's leave 'twas not for us To let them come. They stand outside the gate. But in such wet and shiv'ring plight that sure You'd pity if you saw. Lion. I pity ! I ! 1 86 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [^cr in. Ser. They have been soused in the river, and there left Whate'er they had — the^ bag of gold and all. Lion. Ha! how? Faith, that should be a plea- sant tale. Ser. Crossing the crazy bridge that spans the stream Just o'er the fall, their weight, it seems, quite finished The work of wind and wave, and brought it down Into the torrent, which had caught them too But for a friendly tree whereat they clutched, So that they passed not o'er the perilous edge, And through the water struggled back to land. Lion. For the water a fair riddance. But the gold? Ser. 'Scaped from them as they fell, and leapt the torrent Into the stream below. Lion. Here's what will make That stream worth angling in. Ser. Alas ! my lord. You know they say the torrent at that place Hath bored a hole to the middle of the earth, And ne'er was seen again what there was lost. Lion. So have I heard indeed. And now begone ; I've had enough. Ser. We have your leave, my lord, To lodge them for the night ? Lion. Do I seem one SCENE in.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 187 So babyish of resolve, that what I once Have as my will laid down I can be tickled With grina and bows to swerve from ? I said No, And No I say again. Ser. For me, there's much I've had to bear from John and Joan too ; But now to see them stand and wring their hands, So humbly and so drippingly— in sooth, I cannot choose but pity. Lion. Hence, thou slave, I'll not be schooled by thee, thou whose mere presence, Being a man's, offends me. Leave my sight, Or thou shalt fare the worse. \Exit Servant. I know that fellow Doth deem me cruel. Cruel ! Once, to read Of cruel men and deeds raised in my heart A loathing like to pain ; now I believe The cruel men of the world have been the best. Who have found the others out. Call they me cruel? 'Tis they are cruel — they, who, though they see That I am fain to shun them like the plague, Will leave me yet no peace. O how to 'scape Where I shall be alone, with no man's face, Or voice, to put me e'er in mind again Of the thing that once I was ! I'll build myself A dungeon underground, where I will hide In darkness with my gold, too deep to hear The noise of the world above. Nay, better still. 1 88 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act hi. I'll have a hill-top fort, hedged round with guns, Which none may venture near, but all may see, And each to other say, ' There dwells the man Who hath gold and will not give ;' this were in one Safety and sweet revenge. LiLiAS, who, in her white veil, has entered unper- ceived a few moments before, glides from behind a screen. Lili. Who is't that speaks Of the sweetness of revenge ? Lion, Thou dost vouchsafe Once more thy presence ? Lili. Ay, for -the last time. Nor hadst thou seen me now but for thy faults. Which have disturbed my peace. O then heed well The last words thou shalt ever hear me speak. Lion. The last ! And why the last ? Lili. Ask not, but hear. I come to chide thee. Lion. What is my offence ? Thou, that canst read my heart, see'st there no thought Of thee, that is not rev'rent and submiss. Lili. Yet did I bid thee of thy second wealth Make wiser use than of thy first ; but worse. Thousandfold worse, not better, dost thou deal With it and with thyself. Lion. What have I done ? SCENE III.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 189 Lili. Denied thy justice to the innocent, Thy mercy to the weak, set in the place Of trust unreasoning more unreasoning hate. Closed up thy purse and heart 'gainst man and Heaven. Lion. I was deceived before by knaves and liars. And will not be again. Lili. Who makes amends For an old fault by that fault's opposite Doth but commit new fault. No knaves and liars Deceived thee yet so much, thou heir of Linne, As thou deceiv'st thyself, in thinking now That knaves and liars make up all the world. Lion. I have found none else in it. Lili. Because thou ne'er Hast ta'en the way to find. Believe me well, The world unto each man is what each man Hath made it for himself, and thou mad'st thine With neither choice nor care, so that the worst. Seeing thy wealth and weak unguarded state, Were brought about thee as about a prey. While the best shunned thee, scorning to be thought Base as the others, or with them to herd. Lion. Some good is then in men ? Lili. As thou shalt find When thou shalt rightly seek — with courtesy. Wise bounteousness, and large good-will to all 190 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act iir. Winning the worthiest, yet with wakeful eye Ne'er lulled asleep by buzz of flattery Making the unworthy fear thee as a judge. Thus live henceforward, meetSig other men Lovingly, yet not blindly, with a mind Informed of worst and best ; and though sometimes Thou still ma/st be deceived, yet oftenest Thou shalt have cause to say the world is good — Yea, e'en its evil shall but help thee more To understand its worth, as by the dust We see the path of the sunbeam in the air. Lion. Since thou hast said it, I believe, and joy That I can so believe, but send me not To live 'mong men again ; I'll be content Out of my solitude to wish them well. But more I cannot. Lilt. Why ? Lion: I have no skill In them and in their ways. What ! all my life I've lived with them and sought to make them friends. And yet in all my life, by man nor woman, I never have been loved for mine own self. Lili. If this so troubles thee, ne'er to have been loved, Let it not vex thee more. Thou hast been loved. No man more faithfully ; so may'st thou hope As one hath loved thee that another may — As dearly, and more happily. SCENE III.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 191 Lion. O say — That one — who ? who ?. Lili. This while on earth thou livest Thou ne'er shalt know, but one who for thy sake Would have been glad to lay down life and all. If this may comfort thee, believe it true. For true it is, though more thou may'st not know. Wilt thou obey me now ? Lion. O in all things ! All that thy sweet voice counsels will I do — Go forth 'mong men, and with them live at peace, Lay thoughts of vengeance down, and strive to par- don Who most have wronged me ; ay, e'en John of the Scales Shall feel to-night in his heart some of that comfort Which thou hast poured in mine. Lili. Wilt ever be At one or other of two opposing poles ? John of the Scales no comfort needs from thee, Being made rich with gains gained at thy cost. Be bountiful, but let thy bounty flow. If not on those that merit, yet at least On those that need, and he you name needs nought. Lion. Sa/st thou needs nought ? Ha ! then, an- other lie They put upon me when they brought me word His gold was lost in the river ? 192 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act iii. Lili. His gold lost In the river ! what means this ? Lion. Thou ask of me ! Thou that shouldst know all things by power divine ! dost thou mock me, or \Pauses. Lili. What it imports To know I know indeed. How darest thou So strangely look on me ? Lion. Yet didst thou ask, And seem to stand amazed. O art thou then Subject to ignorance and wonderment — And mortal like myself? Lili. No further seek. My time is come ; farewell ; remember her Whom no more shalt thou see. Lion. [Throwing himself in her way.] I charge thee stay — Or vanish if thou wilt ; but o'er yon threshold Thou shalt not pass till thou hast let me look Upon thy face unveiled. Lili. Make way, make way ! Lion. Thy bosom heaves. Can spirits be so moved By mortal boldness ? I'll be bolder yet, And touch thee — nay, I will. [Seizing her hand. Of flesh and blood Warm like mine own. What ! think not now to 'scape ; 1 have thee fast ; unveU. SCENE III.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 193 Lilt. O ask me not ! Forgive, forgive. I never did you hurt. Lion. Say rather thpu hast loaded me with good — Saved me from death, and sin. O canst thou deem That I would harm thee, that thou tremblest thus ? Lili. I fear not to be harmed. Strike if you will, So you but let me go and seek no more. Lion. Not till I see thy face. Wilt thou not show ? Nay then, I must myself find how to unwind. tremble not, thou sweet-voiced and white-armed ; I'd rather give the life that thou hast saved To a thousand deaths than hurt a hair of thine — But look I must. O who ? not Geraldine ; 1 am mad to think it. \praws away her veil. Lilias ! \She hides her face in her hands. And was't thou, Thou from the first ? Lili. Because I could not bear To see you wronged — and knew no other way To give you warning. Pardon. Lion. And thou too That cam'st 'twixt me and death ? Lili. You once had hearkened ; I hoped you might again. O but I shame Beseech you, stay me not. Lion. And this time comest 194 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act hi. To save me from the darkest death of all, The death whereto my soul had doomed my soul. Lili. You see what fraud I put upon you. Now Forgive, and set me free. Lion. Thou hadst for me Such care, thou who seemedst ever chiefly bent To find a way to shun me ? — Can it be ? Lilias, thou saidst I had been loved. By whom ? By thee ? Nay, speak — ^by thee ? Lili. O let me go — I pray you, pray you. O be merciful. Lion. Thou still wouldst go ? But I would have thee stay — To counsel me, and lead my steps aright. So that they ne'er shall stray, to be my friend, My guide, my northern gtar, my outer conscience, Wherein, as in a mirror, I may read If I do well or ill, my guardian saint. And yet withal my cherished fostered wife. This, Lilias, wilt thou be ? Lili. I am not worthy O that I might but go ! Lion, And go thou shalt If with thy clear eyes looking into mine Thy lips can tell me that thou ne'er hast loved. Well, well ? the answer ? None ? and trembling still ? Why then, my wife — my fast-betrothfed wife. {Drawing her to his bosom. SCENE iii.J THE HEIR OF LINNE. 195 take my thanks, kind Heaven, that at last 1 know what love can be. Lili. And mine with his. Lion. But now to show that I have learned the lesson That thou and Heav'n have taught; yet could I wish The task were heavier, for I find by proof How easy 'tis for the happy to forgive. What ho ! my servants, ho ! Enter a Servant. Throw open wide My gates and doors, and let all enter in Who wait for shelter ; tell them on my part I make them welcome to my roof to-night. And food and fire, and all things else they need, In honour of a new great happiness That just hath come to me. \Exit Servant. O now I feel To thee my love went forth, or sought to go. From the beginning, even from that day I saw thee first — as fair and fresh and pure As the new sweet breath of morning air that blows Through the earliest opened casement. But indeed Thou mad'st me think I only cumbered thee By coming in thy sight. 196 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act hi. Lili. I was so poor, So helpless to repay. Lion. And thus it chanced My new-born love, still too untaught and young To know itself, went wand'ring houseless forth. And the first offered shelter blindly thought To be its native home — how far wherein Mista'en it now hath found, now firom long travel Returned unto its birthplace, there to dwell Changeless, except in growth, for evermore. Lili. What have I done that Heaven gives so much? Lion. O see where come my guests — nay, our guests now. Enter Lord and Lady Fitzwater, Hubert, Gkral- DiNE, Sir Rufus Rollestone, Amabel, Lettice, and all the other Guests, also John and Joan {the two last covered with mzid), Tom Tod following. Friends (for I still will call you friends to-night. Being still guests), you all are welcome back. And shall be welcome still, until such time As the skies give you leave to seek in peace Your sev'ral homes — such of you as have homes ; The others [Looking at John and Joan] must I try to fit with homes. Since none of you I longer would detain Than is most strictly needful. SCENE III.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 197 Lord F. How to thank Such kind, such gen'rous hospitality ! Sir Ruf. We are much bound to your lordship^s courtesy. \_Aside to Lord Fitzwater. Although perchance a little dryly given. Lord F. Dryness is all I ask for. \To John.] Pray you, friend, A trifle further back ; you are very damp. yohn. My dear young lord ! Receive the thanks of one Who has lost his little all. yoan. And his poor wife's. Lion. Make not your thanks to me, for here doth stand Your benefactor of to-night, and mine ; To whom is due all good that in me is, Or from me e'er shall come, and all the joy Wherewith my soul abounds — already queen Of my house and me, to-morrow my fair bride. Lady F. His bride ! Who would have thought Amab. [To Lettice.] Poor Geraldine ! Lord F. How pleasant is this fire ! With all my heart I give your lordship joy. Tom. O might I live To kiss on the cheek a little lord again ! yohn. His bride ! But why, as well as I can see For mud in my eyes, 'tis Lilias, my niece ! 198 THE HEIR OF LINNE. [act hi. Lion. Ay, Lilias your niece, who as my wife Shall from to-morrow her sweet reign begin, Though now her name is but — White Maid of Linne. [ The Curtain falls: The End. TASSO. PERSONS REPRESENTED. Alfonso, Duke of Ferrara. Scipio GoNZAGA, of the Ducal house of Mantua, after- wards Cardinal. TORQUATO Tasso. AsCANio, an old Courtier. Francesco, ) , ^ ,. )- two other Counters. Maddalo, J Antonio Costantini, a Friend of Tasso. Fabrizio, a Merchant of Mantua. Gkegorio, his Friend. Lorenzo, betrothed, afterwards married, to Claudia. The Chamberlain of the Pope. The Prior of the Monastery of St. Onofrio at Rome. An Officer of the Pope. A Physician. A Warder of the Hospital of St. Anniz a* Feri-ara. A Page. Leonora, Sister to the Duke. LiVIA, Angelica, \ Ladies attending on Leanora, 202 Laura, Daughter to Fabrizio. PetRonilla, Aunt to Laura. Claudia, Cousin to Laura. The Cardinal of Este and his train, the Papal Nuncio to Ferrara and his train, Courtiers of the Duke, Ladies of Leonora, Friends and Guests of Fabrizio, Roman Citizens, Monks, Attendants, d^c. The Scene of the First Act is laid at Mantua, of the Second, Third, and Fourth, in and near Ferrara, and of the Fifth, at Rome. An interval of some years is supposed to pass between the First and Second Acts, also between the Third a?id Fojtrth. TASSO. ACT I. SCENE I. Mantua. The Garden of Fabrizio's Villa. A party of young people discovered dancing, among them Lorenzo and Claudia. Laura sits playing to them on a lute. When the dance is ended, the partners distribute themselves in pairs over the stage, some walking about, others coming up to Laura. Loren. [ Who comes up arm-in-arm with Claudia. Kind mistress Laura, take the thanks of all For your sweet music. Clau. I would thank her too, But have not pardoned her. What ! to sit still Upon her birthday — to be queen of the feast, And not to dance ! — for shame ! Loren. And so say I, And so say alL 204 TASSO. [act I. Several. Ay, all. Lau. Friends, cousin, nay; If I am queen of the feast, it is my part To minister to my guests, and this I do. Clau. But would do better if you led the dance. Come, mend your manners now ; 'tis not too late. I'll be musician. \Trying to take Laura's lute. Lau. Pray you, cousin, no. I am not in the mood to dance to-day. Clau. Not in the mood ! here's logic ! Lau. And the lute Is out of tune ; heard you not how it jarred ? Claii. What ! the lute too not in the mood to-day ! Lau. Give me a little time to try the strings. And then we'll see. Nay, but beseech you, friends. Wait not on me ; go wander at your will The garden through, and whatsoever flowers You deem the fairest, cull them for your own ; I know to-day my father makes you welcome To the choicest of his store. So for a while Farewell ; anon you shall be summoned back For a new dance. \Exeunt all except Laura, Lorenzo, and Claudia, though some couples are seen passing up and down at intervals at the back part of the stage. Clau. Lorenzo, heard you not ? She bade you go. Loren. Nay, not more me than you ; I stay because you stay. Clau. That reason's none. SCENE I.] TASSO. 205 I am her cousin, with a cousin's rights. Loren. But you have giv'n your word to make me soon Her cousin too. Nay, frown not, Claudia, love ; Have sweethearts then no rights ? Clau. Some have perchance. Am I your sweetheart ? Loren. Ay. Clau. Then have I right To lay command on you for what I pleasie ; And my command is, Go. Lau. Nay, on my faith — Cousin, you are too hard. Why should he go ? Clau. To give me time to find the string that jars. Obey, Lorenzo. Loren. I see well I must \Exit Lmu. Thou foolish cousin ! Clau. Not so fooli'ih yet Laura, I know why you are out of tune, And your lute not in the mood. Lau. And say then why Clau. Because the student lean and pale from Padua, Your poet-lover, is not here to-day. Lau. You mean the Signor Tasso ? Claic. Will nought serve But you must hear his name? Well then, I'll say The Signor Tasso — ay, to please you more,, Signor Torquato Tasso. - I had thought zo6 TASSO. [act I. Your father gave consent he should be asked To this your birthday feast, but your quenched looks Tell me it is not so. Zau. Now see how ill You read my looks ! He is asked, and he will come — Will come — hath promised. Clau. But is not come yet ? Lau. We know not how he is busied ; he hath things Higher than others have to engross his thoughts. Clau. What should be higher in a lover's count Than leave to approach his mistress? Cousin, cousin, I wish you ne'er had seen him. Lau. Then you wish As I wish not. And wherefore wish you so ? Clau. Because I hold all poets in distrust. I am not used to poets. Lau. That is sure. But I, who know them better — taught by him — Deem that a man with nobler, fairer thoughts Than other men should be of greater faith, Not less, than they. Clau. Should be — that's true. Lau. You think He hath forgot my birthday — but not so. Here is the proof — this paper, sent this morn. \Pra'wing a paper from her bosom. [Heading:] With leaves of that bright tree of fame Whereof she shares the glorious name — Laura and laurel — a conceit he loves — SCENE I.J TASSO. 207 Ye nymphs, crown Laura's brow to-day. Or with the flowers, whereof no less She shares the blushing loveliness ■ Nay, there he flatters, and I'll read no more ; But 'twas a fault he made for love of me. \Kissing the paper as she puts it back. Clau. Ay, so far gone ? Well, if I may not wish You ne'er had seen him, I may wish at least He were no poet. Lau. 'Tis as though you wished That he were not himself. Clau. Yet must you own Your loves had prospered better were he none. Would he have only pinned his soaring thoughts Down to the study of the law, whereof . He was a follower when you knew him first. Your father by this time had let you wed, Who now forbids you e'en to be betrothed Until he hath some better proof than now That one who is a poet to his trade Is not by trade a beggar. Is it wrong To wish your poet were a lawyer still ? Lau. Ay, when you know the law was unto him So sore a yoke it made him by its weight A burden to himself. Clau. Yet have I heard Love makes all burdens light. Lau. Cousin, no more. He chose well, choosing not to drag the chain 2o8 TASSO. [act 1. Of a calling that he loathed ; and even thus Would I have had him choose. He told me once That I was born to give his spirit wings ; And shall I now be found a sordid clog To bind him down to muddy cares of earth. And soil those wings, and lame their glorious flight ? Clau. I'm glad that my Lorenzo has no wings. Hush, hush — your father. Enter Fabrizio, Gregorio, Petronilla, and others. Fab. Ay, friends, I believe The house is in good taste — and garden too ; To builder and to gardener both I gave Strict orders for good taste. Pet. And well they knew My brother was a man who ne'er failed yet To pay for what he ordered. Fab. That, indeed, I hope all know of me. I'm a plain man, An honest, simple burgher, and no more, But always paid my way. I'll make a note To have those roses cropped ; their straggling spoils The smoothness of the hedge. Pet. Why, how now, girls ! What do you here alone ? I fear, niece Laura, You make but a slack hostess. Fed). 'Tis her fault SCENE I.] TASSO. 209 To be always shy. 'Tis well I find you, child. For, as I think, 'tis time we asked our guests To come and make some trial of what repast May wait for them within. Lau. We had thought first To have one other dance. Fab. One other dance ! Always one other dance with you young folks ! Greg. 'Tis even so — whUe we poor old ones wait. The young are very selfish, and 'tis fit Selfishness should be curbed. Fab. Let's in. Lau. But, father, Are all our guests yet come ? Fab. Ay, all methinks— Nay, not indeed the Signor Tasso yet. But for his fault we others need not starve. Fet. [Aside to Fabrizic] The Signor Tasso, brother ! was it well He should be asked to-day ? Fab. [Aside to Petronilla.] Had he not been, She would have deemed me tyrant and him saint. And as a saint he would have wrought more wonders Absent than present If I shut my clerks In the back room at fair-time they will do No work at all for thinking of the show ; If in the front, they look, and, having looked, Turn back unto their books. [Aloud.'] Go some of you 210 TASSO. [act i.^ And call our guests together ; 'tis full time We were at table, let who will be late. Greg. There's the right spirit, friend Fabrizio. For me, I would not have my cook put out Though 'twere to wait for the duke's self — much less A trencher-scraping student. For I think This Tasso that you speak of is the same Who went to Padua to study law, But took to writing verses ? Fab. Ay, the same — Would I could say he' were a wiser man. Greg. A beggarly poor choice — so beggarly I should have judged him likelier to come Betimes to your good fare than keep himself — And others — fasting. Clau. [Aside to Laura, who makes a movement of impatience.] Nay, he is but surly Because he has not dined. Fet [Aside.] Is't thus he speaks Of guest of ours ? [Aloud.] Neighbour Gregorio, This Signor Tasso, though, I grant you, poor — And poor enough — yet springs of noble blood, And here in Mantua are none so great But make him welcome ; yea, his closest friend Is the duke's own kinsman, Signor Scipio. Greg. He who was sent to study for the church ? Fet. Ay, even he ; the twain are rather brothers Than fellow-students. Greg. Prince and churchman ! here SCENE I.] TASSO. 21 r Was patronage for a lawyer ! And he chose Rather to be a poet — I would say A fool, but 'tis all one. Pet. Ay, fool indeed. I take his part no further than to avouch He is fit company for whom you will ; But when you say a fool, so say I too. Lau. And yet, perchance— — \Fauses. Pet. What ! Laura, did you speak ? Lau. Perchance, Aunt Petronilla, 'twas because He chose the poet's, not the lawyer's, part That such high friendship as you speak of now Is his at all. Pet. What mean you ? And is't you Whose fault is to be shy ? Lau. I mean, 'tis like His Excellence the Signor Scipio, Seeing in him what noble minds most prize, A nobler than himself Pet. A nobler 1 What ! He nobler than the Signor Scipio ! Child, are you mad ? Greg. A poor starved paper-spoiler More noble than the kinsman of the duke ! She says it for a jest Lau. No, for the truth. If this Torquato Tasso be indeed The poet he is held by those most skilled, He may claim kin more high than any duke. 212 TASSO. [act I. A poet is a prophet sent by Heaven From time to time on earth, to show to men Heav'n's type of beauty and of nobleness, Whereof the God-giv'n sense, not being thus New-grafted in their hearts, would perish soon Of the grossness of the soil. This nobleness, This beauty, all the greatest ones of earth Make their chief task to copy as they can In deeds of arms, in pageantry of courts ; But while no more than imitators they. The poet hath — nay, is — the thing itself. Enter Tasso, appearing from behind a hedge. He pauses for a moment, gazing at Laura, then ad- vances. Tas. Fair mistress Laura. Lau. \Starting?\ You ! Tas. Yea, even I, Who pray you for a birthday gift to take These flowers, \Giving her flowers?^ which, born of earth, may yet lay claim To kinship with the skies. \Aside to her.] Laura, I heard. And thought I heard the heav'nly muse herself To whom my spirit is vowed. Be thanked, be thanked. [Jl/oud.] Signor Fabrizio, I greet you well. I fear I seem too tardy. Eai. No excuse ; You are come, and shall be welcome. SCENE I.] TASSO. 213 Tas. Could I think That from so fair a company as this My presence had been missed, the grudge I owe To the cause that stayed me would be deeper yet. But this I dare not either fear or hope. Greg. In sooth but you were missed, sir, and missed much — And talked of by us all, as though nought else Were worth the talking of Tas. Talked of by all ! Alack ! how many faults must have been hit ! Greg. Why, how should you know that ? Tas. Because I know How foolish, blind, and ignorant of the world And of themselves, all are behind their backs. Fab. Come, come, since you are here at last, 'tis time We go within, and see what waits for us. Are all assembled ? \Looktng round at his gicests, who are now all present, the dancers having gradually returned.'\ Ay, 'tis so. In, friends ; And it may be that you will find the cook Hath not forgot you quite. Tas. [To Laura, leading her apart from tlie others. Stay here with me ; I have a word to say. Lau. What should this be ? Tas. News for your private ear. Fal). Will none go first ? 214 TASSO. [act I. Nay, then, I'll lead the way. [Exeunt all but Tasso and Laura. Lau. Well, sir, your news ? That you come late unto my birthday feast — So late I thought you would not come at all ? Tus. Nay, when you know the cause you will for- give. Great fortune hath befall'n me. Lau. Ay? O then Befall'n me too. But how ? Tell all — tell quick. I Hnew that Heav'n would make us glad one day. Tas. You have sometimes thought I set my hopes too much On great ones and their favour, but hear now What they have wrought for me. The Cardinal Of Este, brother to Ferrara's duke, Being to Ferrara now upon his way To greet his friends, will take me in his train, And so commend me to the duke his brother That at his court I both shall find a home And special grace, as one whose praise or blame Can vivify or wither through all time The name it breathes on. Well, is this not news ? Lau. That you should go in train of the Cardina Unto Ferrara ? was it thus you said ? Tas. E'en so — Ferrara — golden home of art, Foremost of courts, where a wise prince doth rule, Who keeps the brightest glory of his smiles For what can best reflect their glory back, SCENE I.] ■ TASSO. 2 IS Lau. Ferrara I Then you will leave Mantua — Leave Mantua — and me. Tas. Sweet, for a time It must be so indeed. How now ! you weep ? Nay, nay, not thus, my Laura — ^pray thee nay ; Each tear of thine drops anguish in my heart, So that thy sorrow is more sorrowful To me than thee. Then let my kisses plant New roses on thy cheek, and weep no more ; To weep thou hast no cause. Shall not my love Be ever present to thee, and so serve To keep me present too ? Lau. Then you will stay ? You will not go ? Tas. How mean you ? Lau. And to please My father's humour, you will turn again To your old calling ? not to give yourself Wholly thereto, but so that he may see You need no help from princes ? And methinks The work, albeit you love it not, would make Your hours of leisure and of poesy Seem sweeter-tasted. Yea, it shall be so ; Shall it not be, Torquato ? for my sake ? Tas. You said you loved me. Lau. Ay, and said the truth. Tas. The truth ! Yet now that of my hopes and toils The glorious fruit hath ripened, and but waits K 21 6 TASSO. [act I. My outstretched hand to pluck it, now that Fame Doth hold the golden cup, charged with the draught That all men thirst for, to my parching lips — Yea, makes herself a servant at my beck — You step between, and bid me give up all To be a hireling drudge. 'Twas needful much To say you loved me, for I else had deemed Such counsel was the counsel of a foe. Lau. Torquato ! Tas. Was it so ? for foes I have — I know it, though they go in guise of friends — Who with their envy fain would hold me down ; But shall not ; nay, not though unto their side They have won thee too. \She lays her hand on his arm.] How is 't ? Lau. No more ; forgive — Though what I spoke amiss 'twas my love spoke. And not the hate of others. But forgive ; Go to Ferrara, go where fortune calls, And knowing what high fate awaits thee there I'll strive to be as happy in thy going As in thy staying I had found myself Without the need of striving Tas. Why, there spoke The Laura of my soul. Lau. But promise me. Promise that I shall be thy Laura still. Tas. What ! since I am a wand'rer dost thou think My love shall wander too ? Not so, not so ; SCENE I.] TASSO. 217 Swallows may come and go, and I with them, But not my love of thee, which in my heart Hath made its nest for ever. Lau. Yet I fear That the great ladies whom you there will find, With their high-born cold-glitt'ring words and ways, Will make me in your memory seem a thing Still simpler than I am. Do you remember That fancy that you told me of one day For your great poem ? — of a sorceress Who by her beauty and her wiles had lured A Christian champion to forget his faith And duty for her sake? how by her art She made a garden for his prison-house, So fair, it seemed the art of Nature's self; Where all the trees were gay with green and gold Of bud and fruit at once, while through the leaves Light-murmuring breezes and soft-throated birds Trilled changeful music — ^and where white-limbed nymphs Played to and fro, and smiled and blushed, and made Their smiUng by their blushes lovelier seem, And by their smiles their blushing. And in midst Of all this beauty, at the enchantress' feet, Glorying in bondage as in conquest she. The Christian knight lay prone, and fed his eyes On false Armida's face. Did you not say Her name should be Armida ? Tas. Ay. How well 2i8 2ASS0. [act I. Hast thou remembered, love ! and O how fair My fancies seem, when kissed by thy sweet lips ! Lau. Pray you, by no Armida e'er be wiled Into forgetting me. Tas. O have no fear ; Thine image is my talisman. And e'en Without it were I safe, being vowed to Fame, And so made proof against an earthly lure. Lau. Unless Tas. Say on. Lau. Unless that Fame herself Should be the false Armida of your life. Indeed I cannot think Fame worth so much — ■ Being neither peace, nor yet true happiness — That in her quest all else should be passed by. Tas. Then have you never thought of what Fame is — The birthright of great minds, in other minds To live eternal life ; and for this due Of noble natures noble natures crave As other men for bread, because the food By Fate and Heav'n ordained them, and where most The hunger, most the right. You love me, Laura, Yet feel not this ? Lau. But I will strive to feel In all things e'en as you. Tas. And 'twill be welL Else might I fear you were that sorceress, The Armida that you warn me of, who fain SCENE I. J TASSO. 219 Would keep me in a flowery durance curbed From that high ofHce that I hold from Heaven. Lau. Armida ! Not, I pray, that name for me Tas. So high an office and so glorious That he who wields it is in right thereof Made greater than the greatest ones of earth — As you yourself late said, though now, it seems, You grudge me such exalted fellowship. Lau. O deem not thus. I do but grudge per- chance To think that you should stoop to pay them court And wait upon their favour. Tas. This I do Because their worldly greatness is the staff Whereon I have to lean to climb the heights, Loftier than theirs, that are my proper home. But lo, where comes of my great friends the best, And in my love the greatest of them alL Lau. The Signor Scipio ? Tas. Ay, even he. Enter Scipio Gonzaga. In happy time, kind friend. See, this is one Of whom you oft have heard from me. Sci. How now ! The Laura upon whose triumphal name You love to play in sonnets, crowning it With leaves from its own tree ? Fair lady, take My double homage, both for you and him. 2 20 TASSO. [act I. For, on my word, not Petrarch's laurels twine More close round Petrarch's Laura than round you , The laurels of my friend. Lau. To make my thanks To your Excellence aright I know not how, And can but say, you are welcome. Set. I must fear I half shall spoil my welcome when I tell What errand brings me. Friend, the Cardinal Greets you, and warns you he hath now begun His journey, and anon will pass these gates, Where he will halt until you join his train. So see that you be ready. Lau. What ! so soon ! You told me not it was to be so soon. Tas. It must be, love. Nay, nay, look not so sad ; Till our next meeting we will live on hope, And, when we meet, on joy. [7b Scipic] Pray, of your friendship One other service — unto those within, Her father and his friends, to tell this news. They know not yet ; and from illustrious lips My fortune will the more illustrious sound. Set. I'll do your wish. Lady, be comforted ; He goes forth now, but to your arms one day He shall be brought back famous, hailed by all Italy's poet of poets. \Exii into the house. Tas. Heard you that ? SCENE I.] TASSO, 221 And it is true. Nature hath signed the bond And giv'n it me to keep. Will not that day Pay for the pain of this ? Zau. Indeed to see Such day would make me prouder to be yours Than you of being you. Tas. And who shall say But more than he hath promised thou shalt see ? Perchance — who knows ? — perchance a visible crown Of thine own leaves, thy laurels, on my head. It is my dream, and sometimes dreams come true — That even as that Petrarch, whose great name We heard but now, was solemnly in Rome Crowned with the poet's crown of living green, And outward homage by aU men performed Unto his inward kingship, so shall I One day in Rome wear crown. Zau. And e'en as well 'T would fit thy brow as his, or as the best That e'er bore badge of greatness. Tas. I shame not To tell thee of the fancy, since the crown I covet is not made of gold or gems, But of green leaves unstained by blood or tears. And therefore sure should bring more true content Than crowns of kings^such true and full content As I can never know until the day That first it binds my brow. 22 2 TASSO. [act I. Lau. O when 'tis there, Heav'n send that I may be where with mine eyes I may drink in thy glory, though the sight Were the last they e'er should see. Tas. And when 'tis there, Be sure 'twill be the dearer to my heart For coming from thy tree, mine own sweet love, My Laura and my laurel. Lau. Nay, but look — My father. Enter, from the house, Fabrizio, Gregorio, Petron- iLLA, Lorenzo, Claudia, and the other guests, with Scipio. Eab. I am glad we come in time To claim a little part in your farewells. Which, as I see, already you begin. Tas. My friend hath told you, then ? Fab. Ay— and to say Farewell, and of your fortune bid you joy. We interrupt our feast Greg. That can I vouch — In middle of the pasty. Tas. I am bound Unto your friendship much. Fab. Why, as for that, 'Tis not because you travel by a road That I love not, that I should therefore grudge SCENE I.] TASSO. 223 Good wishes for the journey. Tas. Yet I hoped You would have seen by now that I had chosen My road aright. Fab. And so, maybe, I should, But am too poor and plain a man to know How many years of purchase, and what price, The promised favour of a prince is worth. Set. Nay, sir, the duke Alfonso of Ferrara Is more than a mere prince ; he is the friend Of art and poesy, the comrade sworn Of artists and of poets, who with him. And his like-minded sister, find themselves More honoured for the honour they can give Than high-born lords for honour that they claim. Lau. This duke hath then a sister ? Set. Know you not ? The Princess Leonora — one who sets By poets and the poet's art such store, She might well-nigh be deemed their patron saint Tas. [To Laura.] You see, you see — I shall not lack for friends. Zau. [To SciPio.J And is this princess, sir, as fair of face As by her birth she should be, and the praise You put upon her ? Sd. Ay, as fair as wise — In brief, so graced and graceful in all things That though she were not sister of the duke, 224 TASSO. [A.CT I. Still of his court she were the brightest star. Lau. In truth a lady of rare excellence. \Trumpets sound at a distance. Sd. Hark there ! the trumpets of the Cardinal. \To Tasso.] Hold yourself ready, friend. Tas. 'Tis time to part. But ere I part, Signor Fabrizio, \Advancing with Laura and Fabrizio. Give me one thing to make my parting glad, As a fair sunset promising fair dawn — Your leave to call your daughter my betrothed. Fab. Your pardon, sir ; that cannot be as yet. First schedule me the profits of the trade You have seen fit to choose, and bring me proof Of what the favour of a duke is worth. And to your suit I'll give attentive ear. Till then I do forbid it, and advise That to my daughter now you say farewell As though for the last time, since 'tis my will That neither with your presence nor your pen Her peace be troubled more. \Turns away, leaving Tasso and Laura still in front. Lau. 'Tis very hard— But in your thoughts, love, call me your betrothed, For so I promise will 1 always be Will you but promise too, and ne'er forget Tas. With my whole being I promise. See, let this Be our betrothal-ring. scENK I.J TASSO. 225 \Taking off a ring, and putting it on her finger. Lau. The only one That e'er shall bind my faith — and while 'tis mine So long shall I be yours. \Trumfets sound nearer. What ! there again ? So soon to part ! Tas. 'Tis for my good and thine. Clau. [Aside to Lorenzo.] I'm gladder yet than e'er I thought to be That Heav'n made thee no poet. Sd. [To Tasso.] See, 'tis time— The banners of the Cardinal ! Greg. [Aside.] At last For the pasty and for peace. [A gate at the back of the stage is thrown open, showing beyond a procession, with the Cardinal of Este borne in a litter. An Attendant of the Cardinal advances. Att. His Eminence The Cardinal of Este summons forth The Signor Tasso. Tas. In humility I am ready to attend him where he will. Signor Fabrizio, friends all, farewell. [To Laura.] Lady, I kiss your hand, and crave to keep A place in your remembrance. Lau. Sir, farewel ; You have what you have asked. 226 TASSO. [act I. [Tasso advances to the Cardinal, to whom he makes obeisance, then takes his place in the procession, which, at a sign from, the Cardinal, mmies forward. Gone ! he is gone ! [Sinks into Claudia's arms. The Curtain falls. End of Act I. SCENE I.J TASSO. 227 ACT II. SCENE I. Ferrara. A Hall in the Dtik^s Palace. Francesco and Maddalo discovered speaking together. Enter Ascanio. Asc. Signer Francesco, Signor Maddalo — Good-morrow, sirs. What ! has his grace not bid Your presence at the feast ? Fran. Nay, not to-day. Hath he not yours, Signor Ascanio ? Asc. Nay, not to-day. You know the feast to-day Is for the new-come nuncio and his train, And where so many strangers crowd the board We more familiar guests must deem ourselves Honoured in being chosen to make room. Fran. So say I too. 'Tis e'en as though the duke Asked us to give him help in welcoming His and Ferrara's friends. Mad. And then of feasts We have seen so many that to 'scape this one Is as a kind of boon. 228 TASSO. [act II. Fran. O quite a boon. Asc. The very word. Fran. Besides, we have compassed leave To sit in the loft above the banquet-hall, Where we shall have full view. Will you come too ? Asc. Say you full view? Why then, methinks I will. Mad. Nor shall we lack wherewith to drink the toasts. See here. {Showing a bottle from his pocket Asc. Kind friends, I'll go where'er you please. \Trumpets sound. Hark, they set forth unto the feast e'en now. Mad. And pass this way ? Asc. Look yonder where they come. Fran. Is that the nuncio with whom the duke And the duke's sister speak ? Asc. Ay, ay. Stand close. \Trumpets. Enter Duke and Leonora, with the Papal Nuncio, followed by a train of courtiers, including Tasso, and of attendants of the Nuncio, among whom is Scipio Gonzaga. They cross the stage, and go out at the side opposite to that at which they have entered. Fran. So ! see you that the Signor Tasso goes 'Mong the invited guests ? Asc. I see in truth — And marvel much that such as he find room SCENE I.] TASSO. 229 AVhile men of like account to you, and you, Are left to stand outside. Fran. The very thing I was about to speak of you, dear friend. Mad. See what it is to tickle on the ear A duke and a duke's sister. Fran. Hush ! Yet this I'll say, were I the duke, he should have leave To laud me as he would, but not to write Love-sonnets to my sister. Asc. Certain 'tis He hath writ praises of her hair and eyes That, had he said, he would have had to rue. But, being rhymed and copied fairly out, They have earned him nought but thanks. Mad. My marvel is The princess will endure it Asc. O but ladies Will endure much that way. Shall we see more ? Where is the vantage-place you told me of? Fran. I'll lead you, friends. Come, come, we will have sport, Albeit we cannot jingle words like some. Mad. And who shall say but if we tried we might ? [Exeunt. 230 TASSO. [act II. Enter Tasso and SciPio Gonzaga. Tas. I tell you, it was purposed — and by Heaven I will not bear it. Sci. Nay, I cannot deem 'Twas purposed, friend, indeed. Tas, Be 't as it mayy Below my wonted place I will not sit. But with intent 'twas done, with set intent To badge me for a hireling. Set. You must think That when so many noble guests are met 'Tis hard to portion unto each his place Without offending some. Tas. I am noble too, And am moreover Tasso — nor will brook To be made less than equal with the best Sci. I am sorry this should chance upon the day That after such long sev'rance brings us first To meet again — a meeting whereupon I had set such store that chiefly for its sake Ferrara sees me in the nuncio's train. Tas. Best friend, I know — and sorry I no less ; But 'tis no fault of mine. Sci. I had been told That unto you the duke was wondrous kind. Tas. Kind ! Ay, in truth 'tis a kind duke to all Who make a part of his own glory — ^kind SCENE I. J TASSO. 231 To the Court poet, kind to the Court fool, And the Court dwarf — most kind. Set. Nay, but I thought That unto you he had been kind as prince To his most honoured subject — kind as friend Unto his chosen friend. Tas. Say he is kind, Have I not proved me worthy of my hire, And in requital of his bread and meat Stuffed him enough with praise, the food he loves ? Have I not set his name so in the front Of my new work and greatest that for ever 'Tis branded with his brand ? have I not ridden My fancy lame to find fit metaphors To honour him — and turn-and-turn-about Hailed him as Jove, and Mars ? What would he more ? Set. patience ; this is frenzy. Tas. Patience, yea; That man needs patience to whom Nature gives A gift that Fortiine grudges, who is born Unto a heritage he cannot win Saving with help he loathes. O curse of fate, That made me greater, and yet so much less. Than those poor sceptred puppets ! Set. I know not If most I grieve, or wonder. I had heard You stood in the inmost friendship of the duke And of his sister — and to find you now So fierce in anger 'gainst them s 232 TASSO. [act I!. Tas. Not 'gainst her ! never think my lips could frame of her A word unworthy, or my brain a thought — Her whose mild presence, shining through the dark By its own brightness, as a fair saint's head, Hath been in this drear place my only light. Set. You praise her high. Tas. And if my praise could reach As high as Heaven's roof it would not top Her loftier deserving. Set. Were it not 1 have a nearer knowledge than most men Of you and your concernments, I should fear That that report was true which I have heard. But only smiled to hear. Tas. And what report ? O I know well they are busy with my name. Set. Why, that the poet-homage which you bring The princess in your verse but masquerades The love of a man's heart. Yet would I hope That thus it cannot be. Tas. So — this hath travelled As far as you, and found, I see, with you A traveller's welcome. Love ! you think that she, And I, and love, are three that may be linked In the same breath together ? / love her ! You are pleased to say so. ' Set. I could well-nigh deem You found more pleasure in these words than I. SCENE I.] TASSO. 233 Tas. Because they show me what those men must be Who, if they see a worshipper at prayer To his Madonna, needs must think he loves Heav'n's queen in fleshly fashion. But I hold That Heav'n, though Heav'n is high, may be adored Beneath the lowliest roof without offence. Set. Right glad I am to find that thus it stands ; For O, my friend, for an unarmoured heart There's deadly danger in a woman barred By policy from mating, yet by blood, And vanity, and heavy-hanging hours, Pricked on to play at love. Tas. Which of my foes Hath told you of this way to make me mad ? O pardon me, you are not one of those ; But you should know how far beyond the bounds Of all things possible this danger is Whereof you warn me so unneedfuUy. Sci. You mean because I know you are betrothed ? This had I not forgot. Tas. What ! I betrothed ? You heard the father say it could not be. Sci. But heard you promise to account yourself In your own heart betrothed. Tas. I promised — true ; And keep my promise still — albeit indeed Made so long since that like enough 'tis now By all save me forgot. But get you back To the feast ; you will be missed. 234 TASSO. [act ii. Sci It matters not. For the feast I have no heart. Tas. Nay, but I pray If you must know, by your imaginings, So foolish and unbased, you have hurt me sore. And I must be alone ere I can quench The fever you have lit. Beseech you then Back to your place, nor give to me more heed. Sci. Indeed I see here can I do no good. [Exit Tas. Love ! I know well myself it is not love, That it dare not be love — though others see No strangeness in the thought ; but these would see No strangeness in a mortal stretching forth His arms to clasp a goddess — or perchance In her requiting him with love for love. As once the silver-footed queen of night Stole down the path that leads from heav'n to earth To kiss the Latmian sleeper. Fables all — I will no more of them ; they turn my brain. [Maddalo is heard singing behind the scene. Mad. \SingingP[ Where wine is a-flowing. With glasses to catch. There hearts are a-glowing, And noses to match. Enter Ascanio, Francesco, and Maddalo, tlie last still singing. Where wine is a-flowing, With glasses to catch SCENE I.J TASSO. 23s How does it go ? Tas. I'll hence. No, I will stay, Or they would deem I fear. Mad. I have it now — [Singing\ There hearts are a-glowing. And noses to match. Who's this ? the Signor Tasso ? Tas. Sir, the same — Unless I am drunk, and have forgot myself Mad. Mean you to call me drunk ? Tas. Nay, on my life — Why should I ? there's no need. Mad. Be thankful, sir, You have not said it, for whoe'er should put That word on me, him would I quarrel with. Tas. And with none here I would quarrel for the world. Mad. So much the better. Asc. A good friendly soul. Fran. Friendlier indeed than e'er I took him for. In faith, we will not quarrel. Tas. Heav'n forbid ; They must come near who quarrel' — and besides, It is the curse of quarrels they are apt To lead to reconcilements. Fran. I doubt not Your meaning's good, although sometimes, as now, I fathom you not fully. Tas. Like enough. 236 TASSO. [act II. Fran. But let that be, and give us leave to say How glad we are to find occasion thus To tell you how we grieved to see the slight They put on you to-day. Tas. What mean you here ? Fran. Setting your seat at bottom of the board — O how we grieved ! Asc. A monstrous slight indeed ; You did well not to bear it Tas. Nor will bear Your pity now, be sure. Asc. What ! take offence Because we say in all sincerity Tas. Sincerity ! From your sincerity The saints deliver me and all good men. Sincerity ! a screen you sit behind To play what tricks you will. I pray you, none Of your sincerity. Mad. And if not that — 'Tis a long word, and so I say it not — If none of that, what would you ? Tas. Nought of yours — Unless indeed your absence. Mad. To my ears It sounds as though the paper-scratching fellow Desired us to be gone. Fran. That well may be ; He knows that we are gentlemen — unversed In the weapons of his warfare. SCENE I.] TASSO. 237 Tas. \Touching his sword.] You may choose Your weapon if you will. J^rMz. Ay, for you know That here within the palace of the duke, Where none dare draw, 'tis safe to let me choose. Afad. Ha ! ha ! you have him there. Tas. But I dare draw, And in the palace of the duke chastise Uncourtly manners — thus. [Sinking Francesco wifk the flat of his sword. Fran. If this were not The palace of the duke Tas. And thus. {Striking Maddalo. Mad. Nay then, I'll fight though this Were fifty palaces. \Attacks Tasso, wjio defends himself. Fran. And so will I, now that I think of it. A man of honour may not bear a blow. \Makes a pass at Tasso, who turns upon him furiously. Tas. Heel-snapping Cur, there's for thee. {Strikes the sword out of Francesco's hand., then goes on fighting with Maddalo. Fran. If 'twere not The palace of the duke Asc. Ay, ay, we know — But since it is the palace of the duke. Were it not good to give his highness word Of how his poet-pet doth bear himself? 238 TASSO. [act II. Fran. Well thought of; he shall have the news forthwith. Till I bring help, stay you as witness here. Asc. I will, but pray you haste. [Exit Francesco, Poor Maddalo — He will be murdered, sure. Dear gentlemen Tas. What ! you too, greybeard ! Asc. O no, no, not I, Do as you will for me ; I meant no harm — A greybeard, as you say — a poor old man. [Tasso and Maddalo continue to fight, until presently Enter Duke, with- Courtiers. Duke. Peace ho ! put up your swords, nor dare pro- fane These precincts more. Now fetch your breath, and say How comes it this presumptuous affront Is laid on me and on my sov'reignty ? They tell me, Tasso, 'twas your sword that first, With sudden and most traitor-like assault, Broke up a peaceful converse ; then you first I charge to clear yourself if clear you can. Tas. I will not say, my lord, but that my steel Came soonest from its scabbard — ^yet methinks Constrained thereto by insult of such sort That the aggressor's blame was none of mine. Duke. What blame may lie with others I will weigh And punish in its turn ; but since you own SCENE I.] TASSO. 239 To have made so grave a trespass 'gainst my state Of sov'reign and of host (nor is it now Your humours first disturb me), I must deem 'Tis time you leave a town and court wherein A prince who is your friend with all his pains So little can content you. I am sorry That this must be, but judge it best for all. Tas. And of all best for me. Think not there's need To make the flavour of dismissal sweet By saying you are sorry. I was held Bondsman, and now am free — and once being free Will rather hide me in some wilderness. With stones my daily bread and sand my drink, Than play the courtier in a court again. And gladly as the new-redeemfed soul. Set loose from fiery torment, bathes and dives In heav'n's cool blue, so I in liberty. Being 'scaped from out this place that was my hell — The house of bondage where I lay in chains. And gaolers mocked me — the loath'd torture- room [He pauses suddenly, and gazes at Leonora, who enters with Livia, Angelica, and other Ladies. Leo. O what is this ? I charge you, brother, say. Some ill hath chanced, I know. Duke. Nay, here is nought ; Only the Signor Tasso who unloads 240 TASSO. [act II. His soul of some of that great freight of joy Wherewith 'tis filled at parting from our court. Leo. At parting from our court ! and who hath said Such parting is to be ? and who agreed To aught so wildly spoken ? I must fear You are too yielding, brother, for a prince ; See, I am but a woman, yet will deal Herein with more imperial voice than yours, For if to me the Signor Tasso says He thus would rob our court, I answe'r back He must not, shall not, cannot Tas. But I must ; Your brother's self hath said it, and I must. Forgive, and let me go. Leo. My brother's self! something here worse than I thought hath been. And stay ! [LooMing at Tasso.] is that not blood you seek to hide ? You are wounded ; how comes this ? Duke. From the arrogance That turned my court to a place of private brawl. Tas. From the arrogance that others used on me, And which in any house or presence soe'er 1 was not framed to bear. Duke. So — -do you hear How little sorry Leo. Ah ! no more just now^- Or both might say in heat what both when cool SCENE I.] TASSO. -2/^1 Would fain take back and could not \^To Tasso. You are hurt ; Go and make haste to have your wound bound up, And then return to me, and give me here Some quiet speech with you. Tas. Nay, what hath been Not even you can make undone again. 'Twere best I came no more. Leo. And yet I pray, Promise you will return ; here will I wait. Tas. You ask me ; 'tis enough. Doubt not, I'll come. [Exit. Leo. [Advancing "With the Duke, while the others stand apart. Brother, be well advised. What ! have you been Throughout his evil days the patron-friend Of the age's chiefest poet, and when such At last all hail him, will you now fall back. And let the golden harvest of renown His gratitude should bring to you and yours Be gathered in by others ? Give me leave To be ambassador 'twixt you and him. And all shall yet go well. Duke. He hath tired me out His whims and freaks and varying appetites — Now Craving homage, now on watch to catch A flavour of affront, as though nought else Had taste or relish in't — these thousand humours And daintinesses changed from day to day 242 TASSO. [act II. Are past all bearing. Leo. You have borne them long ; 'Twere pity if you lost your patience now, When he so soon will give unto the world His poem of poems, his " Jerusalem," Whereon, as on a monument, is carved Your and your house's glory. And remember. The hand that wrote may blot. Duke. Ay, that is true. And hard it were to lose what in more ways Than I can count I have paid for. Leo. Then, good brother, Give me full power to deal, and you shall find That, on his part, the rage that leapt so high Will at my voice fall down, and be as tame As the caged lion when the keeper comes Who once hath quelled him. Duke. Even there you touch A reason weightier perchance than all To make me deem it best he should be gone. Leo. What reason may that be ? if not too weighty To be delivered by a mortal tongue. Duke. Know you not, sister, that report makes bold To say — he loves you ? Leo. There now, only see The ungallant creatures that these brothers are ! And if report spoke true, would it be then A thing so mightily to wonder at ? Duke. Nay, but as natural as nature's self SCENE I.] TASSO. 243 That made fair women fair. Yet if it chanced That, moved by your own tenderness of heart, Or Winded by the brightness of his fame, You — you Leo. If I returned him love for love ? speak it boldly out ; 'tis all as well To insult me with your words as with your looks, . And pauses, and throat-clearings. Though indeed 1 scarce can marvel that you fear to tell A sister and a princess of your house How immeasurably lowlier you deem Her spirit than her birth. What have I done To show that I forget my ancestors Were royal e'en as yours ? Duke. [Kissing her hand.^ O truly nought — Nor ever will, nor can. Forgive me, sweet ; You have inade me see my fault. Leo. - And with our poet You will not fear to let me have my way ? Duke. Do even as you will ; you are my sister, In whom I wholly trust Leo. Why, that is well Now pray you hence ; I look for him full soon, And to prevail must deal with him alone. Duke. Prevail you will, I know. Come, gentlemen ; We'll to our guests again. [Exit, with Courtiers. Leo. So think I too. [Turning to her Ladies.] Well, girls, what do you there ? How ! like scared birds, 244 TASSO. [act II. Still twitt'ring o'er your fright ? Yet will I own I was myself affrighted when I heard, As we came in, what fiery wrath possessed The Signor Tasso. Happy 'twas for us He seemed to hold our presence in more awe Than we did his, and, as you saw, grew tame As though we were a band of Amazons Rather than gentle ladies. Did you mark How quickly he was quelled ? Ltv. I marked indeed — And would have wondered knew I not the cause. Leo. The cause — what cause, so please you ? But you mean His reverence for ladies ? Ltv. Ladies^-nay ; One lady 'twas who curbed him, and no more. Ang. I never saw the like. The rage at once Went from his eyes, and to your highness' face They turned and gazed content, as though 'twere food They had been fasting for. Liv. I'd give ten years For but a day's such power upon a man. Ang. And such a man — a man who on the beauty He loves to gaze at can bestow the gift Of an immortal life. Leo. , A foolish pair Of maidens are you both, who think each word A poet writes for sake of rhythm and rhyme Must needs be true, SCENE I.] TASSO. 245 Lit'. 'Tis written on his face As well as in his verse that he is burned With inner fires that would consume him quite, If awe and worship of your royal state Had not already turned him half to stone. Ang. And that now e'en the stony part of him Begins to catch are many signs of late. Leo. Hush, hush, he comes. Peace with your fool- ishness. Ang. Madam, I am dumb. But look at him and say. For all his paleness, if he doth not burn From head to foot. Enter Tasso, his arm bound up. The Ladies retire to the back part of the stage. Tas. Your highness bade me come To see you ere I parted, and I come. Leo. I give you thanks for so much courtesy. I pray you sit. \_Seating herself on a sofa, and tno- tioning him to a place beside her.^ O I must have it so ; Your wound hath left you faint. Sit, and for once Forget I am a princess— as indeed I oft-times would I could myself forget. Sir, by the duke my brother I am bid Deliver you a message But you breathe As quick as though in fever. Tas. Nay, 'tis nought — • , 246 TASSO. [act ii. The wound, e'en as you say ; but all your words I am able well to note. Leo. My brother then Would have me tell you, as from friend to friend, That he repents his heat, and doth entreat you To honour with your presence still his court, Where what you have found amiss shall be redressed, And who have wronged you forced to sue their peace. All this he would have said himself, but feared Yet further to offend, and so chose me, A guiltless herald, unto whom he thinks You cannot well deny the prayer he makes — And I with him — Stay at Ferrara still. Tas. I must not. Leo. Must not ! Tas. Dare not, call it then. Ask of me aught but this, and I will give ; This only can I not. Leo. You are resolved To go — to go, and never see us more ? Tas. E'en so — to go, and never see you more. Leo. I had not thought you could be thus unkind. And whither will you go ? where is't you think To find new friends who will be more your friends Than those you leave behind, who more than they Will have your good at heart, or more than they The power to serve you, and to spread your name, And your great poem's name, to the utmost edge Of Fame's broad sea, wherein so much is cast SCENE 1.] TASSO. 247 One round of ripples blots the other out Ere it hath time to widen ? Tas. My great poem Shall help the convent fire, when the lay-brother Finds that his wood is damp — and I myself Shall have no name but that which I may choose For my companion-monks to call me by. Ay, lady, monks — these are henceforth my friends, And saints my patrons, and the court they serve — The court of Heav'n — my court to which I look To help me and protect. For this it can — It only — and it will, if rightly asked, And give me peace and rest, and keep me safe. Leo. Is this in earnest ? You to be no more Tasso, but only one of many monks ? Tas. In earnest, madam — yea, as death itself. Leo. Why then, in no less earnest let me say You have no right to rob the world of you, No right to make a lazy suicide Of your own glory and immortal name Only because you are tired. Pray pardon me That thus I dare to chide ; but in my voice Think that you hear the world that you would wrong — Think that in me Fame speaks. Fame who for you Hath ne'er had aught but kindness, and is now With wounding scorn requited. Tas. O most strange ! You say that you are Fame ? T 248 TASSO. [act II, Leo. I said I spoke As Fame would speak. What is there here so strange ? Tas. Long ago, lady, even on that night After I saw you first, I had a dream. Methought you sat high raised upon a throne, ' And I, as fitting was, low 'neath your feet, When graciously you bent, and in my hand Gave something — this I knew, though with mine eyes I could not see it or with fingers feeL And then you smiled, but with that smile it seemed My sleeping fancy had outwrought itself, For I awoke. And as I woke, the thought Came to my mind — whence I know not, unless I brought it with me from the realm of sleep — That I had even then been face to face With the genius of my fame, that you indeed, And fame, for me were one. Leo. And to be this Would please me better than to give the law Unto an empire. I .beseech you, strive To think of me thus always, and the thought Will bring its own fulfilment. See, I now Make my first act of office, and command That, as you tender Fame and her rewards, You here shall stay to reap them. Tas. , Yet I once Was warned — and warned by one who wished me well — SCENE I.] TASSO. 249 Fame is not peace, nor yet true happiness. I heeded little then — but now begin To think that she was wise who spoke those words. Leo. She ! who is she that is so fortunate To be by you deemed wise, and whose advice, I needs must own, doth savour of a judgment So ancient and discreet ? Tas. One that I knew At Mantua once. But, lady Leo. I have heard That you were once in love at Mantua. Aha ! I see ; she that you speak of now Is that same Laura you so worshipped there. And praised in sonnets and in madrigals. Is this not so ? Tas. 'Twas but of what she said I spoke — not of herself Leo. You must not think That such sweet rhymes as those have been by us Not noted and admired — right tuneful rhymes ; Albeit perchance a trifle too unmellow, And tasting of the wood. But tell me now, Is 't true (for what you poets say none know If it be meant for music or for truth), Is 't true this Laura was by you so loved ? Tas. I ne'er have said but as I think. Ay, then I thought I loved her — then, when she loved me. Leo. But now I see that she no longer loves ? Tas. Her father wag against me, and her nature 23° TASSO. [act II. Submiss and dutiful ; if she was told She must forget me, she would strive to obey. ^ But with our theme her name hath nought to do — Nor know I how it came in our discourse. Leo. Because you told me what wise prudent saws She spoke of fame, and peace, and happiness. But let me now tell you, if e'er she sought To pluck you back from seeking as you could The glory that is yours by natural right, Not only hath she now forgot to love. But loved you truly never. Tas. So in sooth One well might deem. And yet methinks she did. Leo. But I say no — and you may take my word. Who truly loves is proud of what she loves, And hungry for more food to feed her pride ; And so would she by whom you were loved indeed Charge you to set your glory in the front Of all your strivings, bid you follow it As your chief good at any price soe'er, And counsel you — e'en as I counsel now. Tas. As you — as she — O say again — again — Before this whirl that's in my brain shall stop My sense from understanding. Leo. What is this Moves you so strangely ? But I'll say again If so you will. I counsel you to stay Here at Ferrara, and to force from Fame The birthright that she owes you. SCENE I.] TASSO. 251 Tas. And e'en thus You think would counsel those who — care for me — Who — who — I would say care for me ? Leo. E'en thus Would counsel all your friends — or all at least So much your friends as I. Tas. You — you — is 't so ? ,You give yourself that name? Leo. Why, surely yes — If there is need to give myself a name I thought was mine before. But now I see ; You doubt my friendship, and that doubt it is Which makes your heart so obstinate to my prayer. Tas. Nay, nay, no longer obstinate. I obey — Will stay — will do all things you bid me do — If 'twere with my life's blood to lay the dust Below your sov'reign feet Leo. I will not ask So much as that. I do but bid you stay, And for your yielding thank you from my heart But with your wound I see you are fevered much ; You must go rest awhile. And since you are pleased To treat me as a queen, I give you here My hand to kiss at parting, as a seal Of your renewed allegiance and my grace. \Iiismg and offering him her hand. Tas. [Half rising, and seizing her hand, which he covers with kisses.\ This hand — her hand — at last O pardon me — 252 TASSO. [act II. I am ailing — give me help. \Falls back swooning on the sofa. Leo. Girls, hear you not ? He calls for help ; make haste. Angelica, Hold you his head, and you, good Livia, look To the bandage of his wound. Now is 't not strange ? I did but let him have my hand to kiss. And even at that moment must his wound Have broken forth afresh. Aug. Not strange at all — Though plainly proving that for him there dwells In the white softness of your highness' 'hand Some mortal magic Leo. So 'twould well-nigh seem. \_27ie Curtain falls, Leonora still standing, while her Ladies busy themselves round Tasso. End of Act II. SCENE I.] TASSO. 253 ACT III. SCENE I. Near Ferrara. The Garden of the Duke's Summer Palace of Belriguardo, Enter Tasso. Tas. O pleasant Belriguardo, place of peace And holy quiet, where the sunlight seems, As on the lawn it lies, to have fall'n asleep. And left nought near it well awake, save only The fountain's dropping music, and the shadows That flit beneath the trees — how. have I longed For thee, and thy deep groves, and tangled bowers, And mossy coolnesses ! And thou wilt keep The promise of thy beauty, thou wilt help me To find that dear occasion that in vain I sought for 'midst the turmoil of the court — The time and place when I with her alone May speak, and hear her answer. Sure methinks Here nature's very self will plead my cause, And tune her heart to pity, so that more She will not shun me Not that willingly 254 TASSO. [act iir. She shunned me ever — nay, 'twas but because In the city she belongs not to herself, But lives, as 'twere, in the eyes of all the world ; And sometimes, in despite of all the world, She hath said and looked such things as unto one Who had staked a little less of love than I Were certitude enough. But I have given So much, no common surety serves my turn; And even from her lips, yea, with her lips, I must have proof I am blest, before I cease To be in torment Enter Ascanio, Francesco, Maddalo, Livia, and Angelica. What ! in this place too Those gnats must still be buzzing.? \Going. Liv. Stay, sir, stay. Too late to 'scape ; we see you. Tas. Madam Liv. Fie ! The uncivil manners ! for you saw us well, Even as we saw you. Ang. Uncourtly knight ! Tas. Uncourtly !' give me not so hard a word. I saw — but saw not that you saw I saw. Liv. Why, here is quibbling ! Tas. If I have offended, I am obedient now. What may there be That you would say to me ? Liv. O many things. SCENE I.] TASSO. 255 Well, first to ask wherefore you went not forth Unto the chase this morning with the fest. You were sore missed, I promise you. ^ng. All saw And felt your absence. Fran. [Aside to Ascanio and Maddalo.] That did I indeed, And fared the better for it. Asc. [Aside to Francesco.] And I too; The duke twice spoke to me, and once he smiled. [Aloud.l O sir, we felt it all most sensibly. Mad. [Aside.] And wished 'twould last for ever. [Aloud.] As he says, Most sensibly we felt it. Tas. Sure I am ■ All that you feel you feel most sensibly. I thank you much ; but, as it chanced, to-day I had no care for sport Liv. The princess too Missed you, and wondered. Tas. She ! I was to blame ; I should have gone, but knew not she would mark She was not angered, think you ? Liv. Angered ! nay — She knows too well unto what use you put Your leisure, to begrudge it. Tell me now, Tell me — all here are friends — when shall the world Have your great poem ? Tas. You are certain then She doth not blame me ? • 3S6 TASSO. [act m. Liv. O for that I'll vouch. But of your poem, sir ; I had been told 'Twas finished ; sure 'tis most unkind to make So many longings wait. Tas. 'Tis finished, madam. E'en as the steel is finished whereupon The anvil's work is done — in form and shape — But must be wrought to smoothness ere I dare Wear it in sight of men. Liv. Yet would they well Forgive a spot or two. Tas. But not so well Could I forgive myself Liv. Why then at least Please you make smooth with all the speed you can, For the world waits, and waits impatiently. Tas. I will obey you, madam, even now. \^Going. Liv. Whither away ? Sir, sir ! Tas. You bade me work. And poets, as you know, must work alone. It is their only privilege. [Exit. Liv. One word ! Nay, he is gone. What pity 'tis these poets — So all-adorable in other ways — Should be at times so absent in their moods, So strange and sudden ! Ang. O 'tis grievous quite — The only fault they have ! Asc. Then be content SCENE I.] TASSO. 257 With those that are not poets, but will never Be absent, you being present I-tv. In yourselves You are well enough, but with a stroke of the pen You cannot make our names for ever live. Would he had stayed — I was about to beg For a new sonnet Ang. Even so was I. Fran. I marvel how you care to have the droppings Of a pen that to another gives its best Mad. And what are then these sonnets? twisted rhymes, With sense and sentences turned inside out, To tell you that no more Angelica You should be called, but angel. As for that, Why, I could call you angel if you will. Ang. But if you called me so, good Maddalo, No creature were the wiser. Ziv. Who are those That come this way, and look around with eyes So seeking and unsure ? the man by his garb A citizen, and, most certain, strangers both. Mad. A right fair damsel, be she who she may. I'll offer her my service. Enter Fabrizio and Laura. Is there aught. Lady, that I may help you in ? I pray you, Command me as you will. ■2s8 TASSO. [act in. Fab. Indeed, good sir, We are beholden much, for, as I fear, Albeit not transgressors by our wont. We have wandered further than our right allowed. Mad. O take no pains to excuse ; so bright a dame As your — your — -but I know not how to call Your fair companion ? Fab. 'Tis my daughter, sir. Mad. Thanks — as your daughter, hath a right to go Where'er she hath a mind. Fab. We are most happy To find such kindness here, where, as you see. We are but new and strange, being indeed No more than travellers, who so oft have heard Of this famed Belriguardo, with its palace And wondrous gardens, that we have a little. Turned from our way to judge them for ourselves. Mad. To the gardens let me give you welcome now. For the palace, I must fear I have not power To bid you enter in, since for a while The duke and princess make their dwelling there. Fab. We know ; 'tis not an hour since at the gate Of the park we stood and watched them with their train Returning from the chase. But with the gardens We can content us well. Right fair, in sooth — And I who say it understand a little SCENE I.] TASSO. 259 The laying out of gardens. Mad. I would hope They have your daughter's commendation too, Though yet she hath not spoken. Lau. Surely, sir; Nay, who that could but look would not commend ? Liv. And that doth mean the lady much commends. For truly she hath looked, and looked again. As though till now her eyes had never seen. Lau. What ! have I seemed unmannered ? pray for- give One who is new to travel, and at home Used but to homely ways. Liv. O my dear child, No need to explain. [Aside to Angelica, Ascanio, and Francesco.] Did I not tell you so? Ang. [Aside to Livia.] Nay, but I saw it too. What are the eyes Of that poor Maddalo made of? Lau. Lady, say, Is't in your knowledge if to Belriguardo All of the court have followed ? Liv. All — e'en so. Why should you ask ? Lau. For nought — nay, nought You, madam. Are of the court, methinks, and all else here ? Liv. Ay, surely. I would hope that in your sight We seem not quite uncourtly. Mad. We not only. 26o TASSO. [act hi. Fair one, are of the court, but some of us In high esteem at court Lau. Why then, belike {Aside to Fabrizio.] Father, ask you ; I cannot Fab. Since it seems, My lords and ladies, you are of the court — As truly is but fitting — it may be You have some knowledge of a Signor Tasso, Who, as they say, is much about the duke. Liv. A Signor Tasso ! Where was this man born That for a Signor Tasso he must ask ? As though there were a hundred Signor Tassos, 'Mong whom, with some slight pains, and questioning Of Christian name and tint, of hair and eyes, We might at last pick forth the one he means. Mad. Well, we have sometimes cause enough to think There are a hundred — Signor Tasso this, And Signor Tasso that ; at every turn We are met by Signor Tasso. Fran. Very true ; There seems a plague of Tassos. Asc. Whereunto I echo in response — A plague of Tasso. Liv. [To Fabrizio.] But let me tell you, friend, though of the name There lived a hundred, yea, a thousand here, In the world's count will ne'er be more than one, And he so great that now and in all time SCENE 1.] TASSO. 261 He needs no style btit — Tasso. Lau. [Aside to Y ABBAZio.] Hear you that? Father — you hear ? Fab. And of this Tasso then, Can any tell me if that tale be true Which goes abroad — that he is deep in love With the duke's sister ? Liv. Sir ! — Is this not strange ? I have forgot my fan. Angelica, Be pleased to lend me yours. O the brave fan ! In faith, most choicely painted — and for carving, I never saw the like. Francesco, look. Fran. Rare workmanship indeed. May I be suffered To play the part of Zephyrus ? [Taking the fan. Mad. [To Fabrizio.] Good sir. Were it not better be more circumspect In the framing of your questions ? Fab. [Looking at Laura.] That is true ; You well remind me. I will ask you then. Think you the sister of the duke loves him. And seeks to entice him on ? Liv. [ToV'RA'SfiCS.scOjtakingthe fan from him.'] Nay, in good sooth, I will not tire you longer. See with thanks Your fan again, Angelica. I'll in, And seek some shade ; here doth it grow too hot. Asc. Ay, hotter ev'ry minute. Ang. Not indeed 262 TASSO. [act hi. Longer to be endured. Fran. Lean on my arm. • Mad. Forget not me, I pray ; I'll bear your fan. [Aside, looking at Laura.] Pity that Nature gave so fair a maid So indiscreet a father. [Exeunt all but Fabrizio and Laura. Fab. Well, if these Be courtly manners, I will keep mine own. Child, how you tremble ! And so pale ! Please Heaven You fall not ill again. Lau. Fear not for that. Fab. On your sick-bed you promised me with vows That if- 1 brought you hither it should serve To cure you quite ; but now I doubt the med'cine Will rather hurt than heal. Lau. It shall not hurt, And it shall heal ; believe, Fab. Remember well Our bargain, that if hither you should come To search for truth yourself, whate'er you found You would with patience take — ay, e'en the proof That he hath done with you, and turned his love. And his billing and his cooing, to this woman They call a princess. Lau. Father ! But such proof Is not yet found ; you have no right till then To say such things of him. SCENE I.] TASSO. 263 Fab. I do but try To hold you to remembrance of your bond. I on my part have promised that if true We find him still, and slandered by report, I give him you, and with you all I prize. This promise will I keep ; but keep you yours — That if we find him false you are content To be my child, and think of him no more. Lau. I promised, and I promise yet again — To speak of him no more, or wish for him ; Yea, for your sake to be to you and the world As though I had wished never. Fab. There's my girl ! I know you now once more. But yonder look Where comes another of your fine Court dames. . Lau. Quick ! let us hence ! O father, see you not ? 'Tis she — the princess ! Fab. She ! Lau. Ay, she who rode By the duke's side in front of all the rest ; I marked her well, and know. Come, come away. \Exeunt. Enter Leonora, reading from a scroll. ILeo. \Jieading.'\ As the skilled pilot seeks in Nature's eyes If the wind sleeps, or storms are like to rise. E'en so in your fair orbs, that light my heaven, I turn to read what fate to me is given — 264 TASSO. [act hi. And with their changing change, from hope of life To fear of dying in mine own hearts strife. And it is true — each -word. What woman e'er Kindled a hotter love in man than this ? More hot with ev'ry day. I must take heed It flame not out too broadly, so to set Winking the blear-eyed gossips of the world. But how now t he himself ! Ay, and he marks His paper in my hand. I must take heed. Enter Tasso. So ! Signor Tasso ! welcome. As you see, I here am reading those same verses o'er That last you sent me ; they are freighted full Of sweetest music. Tas. If by you approved, They find their meed. Do you accept them too ? Leo. Accept ! 'twere strange if I should not accept A gift so precious. Yet I hope you purpose To make the world a sharer. Tas. What in them Is yours, is yours alone. I should have said Do you accept their meaning ? Will your eyes Deal me out life, or death ? Leo. Nay now, so grave ? Who but a poet would so seriously Accept a poet's meaning ? Tas. Pray you think A poet is a man, with a man's sense SCENE I.] TASSO. 265 Of heat and cold, of hunger, thirst, and pain — ■ In brief, with all the feelings that make up The thing that men call man. Leo. Now on my word I see you are not well ; you shake and burn As one already caught within the toils Of some fierce sickness. I will get you help. \_Gomg. Tas. SjJvertaking and detaining her^ Remain; thou shalt. O pardon me, nor think I am aught else than humble still to you, But heard at last I must be. Enter Fabrizio and Laura, at tlie back. They see Tasso and Leonora, and stand watching them. You know well I have been long content much to desire. Little to hope, and nought to ask ; but now The time is come that I must ask or die. Leo. Heed how you speak. Tas. jL Nay, I must speak, must ask — Must speak my love that, pent up here, doth shake And rive its prison-walls, must ask for yours — Your love — O give me, give 1 [Laura covers her eyes with one hand, and gives the other to her father, who leads her away. Leo. \After a pause?[ Let me recall . Unto your memory how unfit these words- Are to be said by you, or heard by me. 265 TASSO. [act m. But since I would be loth the pleasant hours Of friendship we have known and yet may know Should all be wrecked by one rash moment's breath, I will forget I heard, if on your side You will forget you spoke. Tas, How now ! so cold ! In word, in look, so cold ! But word and look May bear false witness. No, it cannot be — I'll not believe — in nature is it not, Not possible by her law, that what is here Could to such hugeness grow were nought in thee Create to answer it. God sent us hunger. But bade the earth be fruitful — thirst, but stored The wand'ring clouds with rain ; then must it be That when so greatly he lets Tasso love, Leonora loves a little, Speak ) O speak ! [Seizing her hand. Leo. Let go my hand. If any should be near ! I say let go. What ! will you not ? Why then, I must remind you, sir, these vows are due To another, not to me. In Mantua ^ You loved a maiden once, and, I have heard. Gave her your troth ; go back to her, and shame To be in love so faithless. Tas. [Letting go her hand."] Faithless — yea — The word is true, though from your lips 'tis one I thought not to have heard. Apd she was good. And loved me, and would ne'er hg.yg taunted' me. SCENE I.] TASSO. 267 Enter a Page. Page. Here, Signor Tasso, is a ring of yours That I am bid deliver. Tas. What means this ? \Taking the n'ng.'] A ring ! this ring ! who gave it ? who ? who ? where ? Page. They told me if you asked I was to say It mattered not, but that the ring was yours. [Exit. Tas. Ay, 'tis the same. Zeo. \Approaching him with curiosity. \ What riddle have we here ? Tas. You were pleased, madam, to remind me now I owed my faith to another. That was so, But is no longer ; see, she sends it back — The ring I gave her, that with such sweet light Of truth outshining from her eyes she took. And true she was, and good ; but now for ever Her goodness and her truth to me are lost, Lost, and through thee — through thee, by whom I have lost All that was mine, and mine own self to boot Ay, but at least I will not lose thee too ; Thou shalt repay me alL Think not to 'scape. \Laying hold of her. Leo. Fall back, presumptuous. Back, upon thy life. Tas. So ! now you are the princess ? 1 know — " You play the woman when you would lead me on. The princess when 'tis fit to hold me off; 268 TASSO. [act hi. But I — I through it all am still a man, And not a jointed toy to be wound up To play in any game what part you please. I am a man, and love thee with man's love. And thou must give me love for love, and shalt Leo. Hark ! voices ! hear you not ? Fool, let me go. Tas. Not till thou first hast plighted me thy troth — Thus, thus, and thus. [Embracing her. Enter Duke, with Courtiers and Attendants, among them AsCANio, Francesco, and Maddalo. Leo. Away ! Duke. My sister ! \0n hearing the Duke's voice, Tasso suddenly releases her. Leo. {Rushing up to the Duke.] Help ! He is mad — O save me, brother ! Duke. Seize him, sirs — On your allegiance, seize him. \A short struggle, in which Tasso is overpowered. Mad. Good my lord. We have him fast Duke. Then take away his sword. Nay, nay, no need to handle daintily ; He hath deserved the worst Fran. The very worst Asc. [Aside.] And will not have much better. Duke. And now, slave. Say, what is this that thou hast dared to do ? SCENE I.] TASSO. 269 las. Before I speak, take back that word of slave, And keep it for thyself, whom nature made More fit than I to wear it. Duke. Wouldst thou Tas. Slave Is not my name, at least not now my name, For once it was — what time I hired myself For paltry hire to a paltry hirer, one Small in all things save appetite of power And lust of lying praises which I sang — Not now ; now am I free, and stand once more What I was born, thy better. Leo. Out alas ! I told you he was mad, and now you see. Tas. False woman, nay, not mad, and this thou knowest. Thou hast beggared me of all the goods of life, Hast lured me on to the very edge of hell, But hast not made me mad. Leo. I have not, no, For e'en from the beginning wast thou mad Of thine own vanity. If first thy brain Had not been turned by that, how couldst thou deem That I, a princess of great Este's house. E'er stooped to try my lures on such as thou ? Brother, I pray you make me safe from him In time to come. You see that he is mad ; As a madman deal with him. Tas. And this is she — 270 TASSO. [act III. She for whose sake I gave up life and love. O fool, fool, fool ! Duke. Sister, you counsel well. {To Aiiendants.'\ To the madhouse at Ferrara take him straight. {The Curtain falls. End of Act III. SCENE I.] TASSO. 271 ACT IV. SCENE I. Ferrara. A Room in the Hospital of St. Anna. The joyous chiming of church bells is heard at intervals from without. SciPio GoNZAGA and Antonio Costantini discovered. Set. Being so near to see him I find now To see him I well-nigh fear. — Who is't ? Nay, only The warder once again. Enter a Warder from an inner room. Will he not come ? War. 'Tis as I thought; he sleeps. He is given much To those strange ways, like many of them here— To wake all night, and rest when sane men stir. Shall I not rouse him up ? Sci. No, pray you, no ; We have leisure, and with your good leave will wait. Disturb him would we not. War. Hark to the bells ! 272 ■ TASSO. [act IV. Now the procession is upon its way — At foot of the street perchance if I could sea [Goes to the window. Nay, from this bodkin-sUt no seeing is — Too narrow and deep-set 'Tis hard to stay Caged behind iron bars when all the world Is looking at the show. Ant. And hard on others Within these walls than you. War. Tut, for those others. They are mad, and have no right to think aught hard. I have my reason, and I say 'tis hard I should be kept penned in on such a day, As though 'twere once a month or once a week That a duke's heir brings home a fair young bride. Well, well, I have work to do, and other work Than only here. You said that you would wait — But can belike spare me ? Sci. Friend, doubt it not. War. Why, that is good. I have other work than here. \Exit. Sci. And in such place as this for seven long years, And in such guardianship as yonder churl's, The greatest poet of the world hath lived ! Ant. Ay, in such place, and in such guardianship ; And worse than these at first — in a foul cell A single stride could measure, and where light Was just enough to show the noisomeness And horror all around, where damp-dewed walls, SCENE I.] TASSO. 273 Not to be pierced by sunshine or by air, Served not to shut out sounds of maniac yells, Echoed by idiot laughter, or sometimes By crack of keeper's whip. Xhrough favour 'twas, And prayers of many friends, that to these rooms You seem to shudder at he hath been advanced. Set. Alas ! what hath he borne ! And how enough Shall I, his friend, e'er thank you, noble youth. Who, in this town a dweller, have had power. Denied to me, to be his comforter. And have abounded so in willingness That but by aid of you and your kind cares Hath much-tried nature held her own so long. Ant. Would only that more power were mine to make This world to him a little easier To whom I am in debt for the fairest hours That e'er it had for me. O say, good sir, You are great among the great, can you not help The friend you love so well from out this tomb Where living men lie buried ? Sci. For what end Unless to try to help is't that I come Unto Ferrara now ? And to prevail I hope at last, for greater ones than I, Princes and princes' kinsmen of well-nigh Each court of Italy, and the Pope himself, Are intercessors with me in this cause. Against so many and such prayers as these It cannot be the duke should still hold out 2 74 TASSO. [act iv. Ant. Against them all by turns he hath held oyt Seven weary years. Set. But more than ever yet They are now importunate, and with them join The bride and bridegroom that come home to-day. I am bid to-night to that great feast he gives In honour of their nuptials ; when 'tis done, Then will I make my suit — nor can I think At such a time of joy but that one sound Of sorrow by its discord will be heard. And force at last his pity. Ant. So 'twould be With any save this duke, but he in hate Hath shown himself so rich, I needs must fear. Sci. His hate hath wreaked itself. And then the cause, Or what they say was cause, of all these ills Hath, with the Princess Leonora's death. Been ta'en away, and should be now forgot. Ant Ay, she is dead, but in her brother still Her spirit lives — and yet so many prayers Perchance may exorcise it But I counsel Of all these strivings to our friend say nought ; He hath hoped so oft in vain, and from the height Of hope been cast so oft to the hard ground Of stony desolation, that methinks Once more to be so raised and so to fall Would make him in good earnest what the duke, And duke's physicians, call him. SCENE I.] TASSO. 275 Sci. Trust me well ; He shall hear nought until success is sure. Peace, peace — he comes. Is't he indeed ? Enter Tasso from the inner room. My friend ! Look on me, friend. But how ! you know me not ! Tas. Your servant, sir. My good Antonio, You are welcome now and ever. Sci. And for me Have you no word ? Hath Tasso quite forgot Scipio Gonzaga ? Tas. [To Antonio.] Is it in good sooth Scipio Gonzaga? Ant. Ay, most sure. Tas. [To Scipio.] Your pardon ; I knew that you were like him, but oft-times I am deceived by fancies, that put on Familiar shapes and voices. Since indeed You are Scipio, you are welcome. How fare all In Rome ? for 'tis from Rome, I think, you come. Sd. Yes, and to see you, friend. Tas. I thank you much. You look upon me strangely. I'll be sworn You deem, because I said that I had fancies. That I am mad — but no, I am not mad. Though 'tis the will of one in a high place I should be so. But let me tell you, sir That living in a madhouse seven years 276 TASSO. [act IV. May well make reason call in self-defence A fancy now and then unto her aid. Sci. Past doubt, past doubt Tas. But come, for other things. I am well pleased we meet again, although When last we parted we thought not that here Should our next meeting be. Set. We thought it not ; Nor thought, when time should that next meeting bring, You would have gathered in so full a harvest As now is yours of glory. O my friend, You are rich in sorrow, but in comfort too. Of such rare sort that some would buy it gladly With cost of all your pain. You lie in prison, But from your prison you have given forth A poem so noble that more eyes are turned Unto these walls than to the palaces Whence princes issue words of life and death. Is there here no amends ? Tas. You speak not this Only to please me, but in sober truth ? By the world is my " Jerusalem " indeed So well accepted ? Sci. And accounted one 'Mong its best treasures, and the name of him Who hath so enriched mankind is on the wings Of fame borne forth to earth's remotest bounds. So that in lands you know not you are known. And your name held in honour. SCENE I.] TASSO. 277 Tas. Yea, my name — But I myself am here. Unto my griefs My glories are not equal, Sd. Weil I know Your griefs indeed are great Tas. O but how great You know not, nor can know, who ne'er have known What 'tis to Ue and long to be giv'n back. Not to the rights of men — that were too much — But those at least of beasts, who make their home In the hollow of what tree may like them best, To whom the fountains yield their crystal drink. The hills their herbage, and on whom unasked The fair blue heav'n sends down its gladsome light And breathes its cooling fever-healing breath. O for one hour of these ! No guilty wretch Was ever so tormented by the rack As I by longings for the commonest things That Nature hath, that yet are not for me. Sd. Take comfort Who shall say how near at last Deliverance may be ? Tas. Nay, I have learned More wisdom than to hope. I used to dream It must be near, and prayed and pleaded hard To God and man each hour of day and night ; But now I know that pity is either dead. Or else by princes banished from the earth. And fled for refuge to the highest heaven — Too high to hear ; so must I still be left 278 TASSO. [act IV. In this grim place to think and think again, And, thinking, madden. Set. Pray you speak not thus, To give a triumph to your enemies. Tas. What ! said I ' madden ' ? 'twas a foolish word. 1 am not mad— though seven years lived here Is a long time. But in good faith to-day I am not well, and say I scarce know what ; My head is dizzy, and full of jangling sounds Like church bells ringing. You hear nought of this ? Set. Nay, who hears not those chimes ? They ring to honour The duke's young heir, who hath to-day brought home His new-wed bride. Tas. So they indeed are real ? I knew it not, for sometimes in mine ears Bells peal, and music, that none hears save me — Yea, sometimes to mine eyes strange shapes appear That no man else may see, and make my soul Weak like a reed that trembles in the wind. Sci Think not too much of these; they are but dreams. Tas. O that word dream might surely better fit The real life that in the past I lived Than some of those unreal visions now. But they are not all dreadful ; some are fair, And fill my heart with comfort. One of these That men would call my dreams hath come so oft, And seems so real, that I fain must think SCENE I.] TASSO. 279 'Tis sent to me for sign to help me read My life aright Sci. And what is then this dream ? Tas. One with a fair beginning and fair end, Though in the middle dismal First I see (And though I say a dream, I see it awake) The Capitol at Rome, prepared and decked For some great festival, with waiting crowds Looking one way. And in the midst of all. Upon a dais raised, in robes of state And crowned with triple crown, doth stand the Pope, Who holds a laurel wreath high o'er the brow Of one who kneels before him like myself But even as the garland on my head Doth seem descending, a dark figure steals Across the picture, and with lifted hand Strikes, and it vanishes, and where it was Is left a black-draped bier, and, stretched thereon, A thing like mine own corse, with waxen brow Bound round with withered leaves. A fearful sight — But not the worst, for then the figure turns, And shows divine me now what face it shows. Set. How should I tell ? Tas. Think of my deadliest foe, And you will know ; the slayer of my life. The fair witch Circe that hath thrust me here To herd with worse than beasts — and I, poor fool. Once took her for the genius of my fame. The fame that she hath murdered. 'Tis her face X z8o TASSO. [act iv. That turns, and smiles with a triumphant smile, Exulting o'er her work. Sci. O never let A dream so shake you, Tas. But it ends not thus ; I have a guardian spirit left me still. E'en as she smiles, she feels her conqueror And my deliverer near, and hides her eyes. And cowers, and glides away — and on the ground That she hath yielded comes a second shape, A woman too in seeming, clad in black, Save for a veil of blue upon her head Woven with stars, even as dark-robed night Crowned with the lights of heaven. In her hand She bears a laurel branch, at touch whereof The thing that so hath chilled my blood gives place, And in its stead a fair bright star shines out Amid the darkness, circled round with green Of living laurel — ^unto me I hope The token of my soul as it shall be When ruin hath done its worst. Sci. And so the vision Here makes its end ? Tas. Ay, for she turns away, And goes back whence she came, I all this time Not having seen her face, strive as I may ; And this indeed sore troubles me, that yet I am not counted worthy of the sight Of my good angel, and know not what likeness SCENE I.] TASSO. 281 She wears 'mong spirits and men. Sometimes I think It needs must be the Queen of Heav'n herself That pities me, for sure no other would That e'er took shape of woman. Is't not strange Women are called gentle and soft of heart ? I have not proved them so. Set. You found one hard ; But judge not all by one. Tas. O I doubt not That there are best and worst ; but best and worst Are both alike in this, that they must have From him who loves them sacrifice. The worst Would have him suffer, that his sufferings May make them glorious ; but e'en the best. Who care not to be famous in the world. Would still have something, and require of him To be for love of them obscure as they. Yet these, I say, are best, these are the ones Who truly love, or truly think they love. And who perchance to him that yielded all Would give a rich return. No more, no more — I made my choice for fame, and fame must have. And fame must work for. Please you stand aside— Where are my papers ? I must work ; too long You keep me idle. [^Taking papers from a drawer, and arranging them on a table. Sci. And what work is this ? Tas. A poem which my others shall excel E'en as its theme does theirs, which is indeed 282 TASSO. [act IV. The story of the wondrous week of days Wherein the world was mada You see this time The glory of God and not of man I sing ; I am tired of man for patron. [Sitting down to his papers, then pushing them away. Nay, to write The day is too far spent — and in this place They trust their lodgers with no light save heaven's. But I can think. Disturb me not, I pray. Ant. 'Tis bootless more to try to speak with him ; He is rapt, and will not answer. Sci. And in truth 'Tis time that I were hence ; it waxes dark, And the last chimes have died in the evening air. The hour is come that I must seek the duke And the, duke's feast, e'en for the sake of him Who makes to me the thought of feasting sad. \To Tasso.J Friend, fare you well; I have outstayed my time. And must be gone. Tas. [ Without looking up.'\ Farewell. Sd, You will have at least The moon to light your labours; [£xit, with Antonio. \The room, is now dark, except for the light of the moon shining in at the window. Tas. Yea, the moon — The lesser light that o'er the night bears rule. O on that night when first her pallid beams SCENE I.] TASSO. 283 Began to yellow through the dark'ning sky, How fail an unspoiled world she must have seen — Where man was not, nor conscious sense of self To mar the even balance of the beauty Prepared for all — where nought was but the sea And the new earth, the sea with friendly arms Clasping the green coast softly, and the earth Smiling at heaven through the tender haze Of the first spring's young verdure. O such beauty How shall I rightly paint, I who so long Have looked upon no prospect but grey walls And a locked door ? yet shall the very hunger Of mine eyes feed my fancy. \A chiming of bells is heard, ■ but with a fainter and more muffled sound than those which rang during the earlier part of the scene.] What ! again Those bells to harass me ! He said methinks That they were marriage-bells — but what have I With marriage-bells to do ? No, no, not thus ; Not for a marriage these — I know their tone — 'Tis for my coronation that they ring, My triumph at the Capitol. Once more I shall behold — once more. It comes, it comes. [Gazes at the wall at the back of the stage, which gra- dually becomes luminous, and presently shows a public place approached by steps, with a palatial building in the background and another at each side, forming three sides of a square. At the base of the steps a large crowd is assembled, and at the top is 284 TASSO. [act IV. a raised platform, on which kneels a figure like Tasso, with the Pope holding a wreath of laurels over his head. O Holy Father, haste ; put on the crown — Now — now — ere any hinder. Nay, too late ; She is here who is my foe. \The figure of a woman glides before the picture, and at a wave of her hand it m^lts away, and in its place appears a bier, on which a form lies like that of Tasso, crowned with withered leaves. And death is here, Mine and my glory's death — and yet to me So hateful not as she by whom 'tis wrought. \The figure turns and smiles at him exultingly, showing the face of Leonora. What ! dost thou triumph ? Ay, thou hast conquered now — But not for long ; another is at hand Stronger than thou, to whom thou must give place ; In her I put my hope, and thee defy. But O how long she tarries ! Will she fail ? Not so ; she comes, I see by thee she comes. \The figure of Leonora, as though it saw something approaching which it feared, lowers its head, and, hiding its face, glides away, while, from the side opposite to that by which it leaves, another figure enters, also of a woman, dressed entirely in black, except for a blue veil spangled with gold stars, which covers its SCENE I.J TASSO. 285 head and face, and- holding in its hand a laurel branch. With this it touches the picture of the bier, which disappears, and in Us place is seen, on a dark background, a shining star surrounded with a laurel wreath. Tasso kneels. Yea, thou hast come, and with thee to my soul Brought peace, and healing comfort But I pray, Let me once hear thy voice, and see thy face. Though with the sight I die — for thus meseems I could die happy, lighted by thine eyes. How now ! thou goest ? Nay, a look, one look, That I may know thee when we meet in heaven. \The figure passes out. Gone— gone — and still unknown. Alone again ! With darkness all alone ! \Sinks to the ground, where he remains motionless. A pause, during which the star and laurel wreath fade away, leaving the wall as at first. Enter Scipio and Antonio, with a light. Set. Tasso ! my friend ! Where art thou ? Is this he ? O what hath chanced ? It seems he swoons. Friend ! friend ! Tas. Will she not turn? Not give me one poor look ? Sci. What is't thou sayest ? Come, rouse thyself, and hear. I bring good news. 286 TASSO. [act iv. Tas. [Springing to his feet.'] Good news ! that she accords my prayer at last ? Where ? where ? What ! only you ! You have cheated me. Sd. Yea, only I, but with such news as since Seven years you have not heard — that you are free. Tas. Free ! what is that ? Ant To your voice he is not used. Illustrious Tasso, he hath told you true. The duke, in honour of the new-wed pair, And .by entreaty from all sides beset. Hath yielded — you are free. Tas. \Repeating the words 7nechanically.\ Free ! I am free. Sci. Ay, free to seek where in the world you will The homage you shall find through all the world Waiting your presence. But now lend your ear. And of the use to turn your freedom to I'll give you counsel. As belike you know, I have in Rome some power, and look ere long To own yet more, even so much as goes With the place and title of a Cardinal — And all my power shall be for you put forth. Come then to Rome, and there, I pass my word. You shall be crowned with the poet's laurel crown. That at the Capitol the Pope's own hand Shall set upon your head, as once 'twas set Upon the head of Petrarch. SCENE I.] TASSO. 287 Tas. [Clasping his hands with a wild cry.'] Crowned at Rome ! At last, at last ! I thank thee, Heav'n — at last ! [The Curtain falls. End of Act IV. TASSO. [act v. ACT V. SCENE I. Rome. A public place, resembling the picture shown in the Fourth Act. On the raised part of the scene, at the top of the steps, a platform is erected, such as that represented in the picture, but unoccupied. A crowd of Citizens, &fc., with Women and Children, discovered at the base of the steps. An Old Woman. Alack ! here's weary waiting. \st at As for that, All waiting's weary. Nought so long keeps broth From cooling as to blow on't But indeed You'll have more waiting ; of the appointed time It still wants much. 2nd at. Ay, the procession yet Cannot have left the Vatican. xst at And e'en When it hath left, 'twill not be quickly here Through such thronged ways as lie between — as packed With starers as a honeycomb with cells. Old Woman. The worse for me ; my back is like to break. SCENE I.J TASSO. 289 Had I but known, I'd not have waited thus, Not to see twenty thousand poets crowned. yd at. You will see more than twenty thousand, dame. That were no sight at all ; you will see one. Old Woman. O sir, I know what thing a poet is Without your telling. I've a nephew's son Can reel you off five hundred Unes by heart That this same Signor Tasso made, and ne'er Stop once to swallow — so I should know, sure. Enter, at the side, Laura, wrapped in a black cloak and hood, Lorenzo and Claudia, making their way through the crowd. ^th at What ! here are more ! Loren. Pray you, a little room. i,th at. Nay, sir, we've stood aU day ourselves to see, And cannot now give way. Loren. Let us have space At least to pass, in courtesy ; to be here Upon this day these ladies have come far. ^th at. So then, pass if you will ; but pass behind. [Lorenzo, Laura, and Claudia come forward to the front of the stage. Loren. [Tb Laura.] Are you contented thus? or shall we seek To approach yet nearer ? Lau. Nay, not nearer ; here 290 TASSO. [act v. We are safe from being known ; here will we stay. Clau. Why, how you pant for breath ! I do but hope You have the strength you think. Look, husband, look ; Seems she not like to faint ? Lau. How should you doubt ? Had I not strength, for many a year before My father died, not once to speak that name ? Yea, e'en to smile, and wear the face of one Who in her heart was happy ? and shall now My strength not be enough to stand and look ? Trust me ; I know myself Clau. Well, well. And yet I would you had not come. Lau. Pray grudge me not This little comfort. I have borne long years Of sorrow in his sorrow; let me now Have some taste of his triumph. Do but think, And say if you would not have travelled far To see a festival like this to-day Made for your good Lorenzo ? Clau. Ay, in faith — You know I would. But then he is mine own. Who loves me, unto whom I am all in all. Lau. 'Twas kind, but needless, to remind me thus Of what was not forgot — Nay, nay, forgive; You never dealt me willing stab, I know ; You are good, and I am grateful — and to-day More grateful than e'er yet, that to my whim SCENE I.] TASSO. 291 You have yielded, and to this place given me Your loving escort. Let me count to you As a sick child, made by some inward hurt To kindest handling restive. Clau. O poor child ! Would I might heal that hurt ! Enter, from behind, an Officer, who advances to the top of the steps. ist at. Look, look ! at last Here doth one come in livery of the Pope. He brings us tidings ; now must the procession Be close at hand. 2nd at. Hush, he would speak. Several. Hush, hush. Off. Good friends, his Holiness doth greet you well. And bids you all depart in quietness Unto your sev'ral homes ; to-day the sight You wait for will not be. Several. [Murmuring.l Not be ! Off. As much His Holiness bewails this change as yoa But by unhappy chance that glorious And all-unrivalled poet, unto whom The honour of this day was to be done, The illustrious Signor Tasso, hath been seized With sudden malady, wherein he now Lies sick, e'en unto death. Pray get you home. ist at So this is for our waiting. 292 TASSO. [act V Old Woman. What I no show To be at all ! 2nd at. If he must needs fall ill, Was there not yesterday ? Old Woman. Or why at least Should not the Pope have come, and brought the crown ? Off. Beseech you, friends, give way, and clear the streets. ■i.st Cii. Ay, ay, we'll go ; at home we are better off. [To 2nd Citizen.'] So then farewell, good gossip. 2nd Cit. Fare you well. Here hath been pretty waiting all for nought \Exeunt Citizens, dt'c. The Officer, who has stood at the top of the steps, watching the crowd break up, is turning away, when Laura approaches him. Lau. Sir, sir ! Off. What would you, madam ? By your leave, I am in haste. Lau. Yet stay to answer this. Where is he ? who is tending him ? and how ? With gentle hands, or rough ? O marvel not That I should ask ; I used to know him once. Off. He is in good keeping, madam, have no fear — With the holy fathers at the monastery Of St Onofrio, whither by his wish He hath been borne, to have his soul prepared For Heaven by their pious offices. Lau. And are they kind as pious ? soft of hand, SCENE I.] TASSO. 293 And pitying of heart, and skilled in all A sick man's changing needs ? Off. O be at rest. He for whose welfare you are thus concerned Is centre of the reverence and care Of Rome and all Rome's greatest ; his close friend, The Cardinal Gonzaga, is e'en now In the monastery, watching by his bed. Lau. The Cardinal Gonzaga — he that once Was Scipio Gonzaga called, and kin To the house of Mantua ? Off. Ay, madam, he. Lau. I thank you ; 'tis enough. [Officer bows, and exit. [To Lorenzo and Claudia.] Now come — come quick. Clau. Why, whither would you go ? Zau. Are you so dull ? To the Cardinal Gonzaga, at the monastery Of St. Onofrio. Clau. The Cardinal ! What would you with the Cardinal? Zau. Fear not ; I will not ask him much — only a look, One little moment's look before I die, Upon his living face ; and that methinks The Cardinal Gonzaga should not grudge, Since Scipio Gonzaga 'twas that once Hurried him from my sight, ere I had time 294 TASSO. [act v. To impress the image rightly on mine eyes That in my heart dwells always. Nay, but see, How do we waste the time! Come, come, make haste. Clau. But, cousin — — Lau. Haste, I say. Loren. ■ Be't as she will. Our thwarting will not serve ; her mind is fixed. [Exeunt. SCENE II. The Garden of the Monastery of St. Onofrio. Enter Cardinal Gonzaga, with a Physician and a Monk. C. Gon. Is this indeed, good doctor, what you say As your last word — no hope ? Phy. Ay, even this— Would I might answer else ! But wretched years Of durance and vain pining so have sapped And chafed away the outworks of his strength That now invading sickness finds in him An undefended fort, that needs must yield To the first resolved attack. C. Gon. O my poor friend ! Monk. And yet have those who love him cause to joy In his soul's health, more even than to mourn SCENE II.] TASSO. 29s His body's languishing, for on my word Not I nor any of my brethren here, Who have stood by many death-beds, e'er have found A spirit so devout,- or so much zeal As his to be instructed and prepared For his great journey. . Fhy. Ay, 'twould seem already He counts his mortal life to be at end. So doth he strive, and labour to forget What to the past belongs, and only think Of what may lie before. . But I must pray Your Eminence to spare me for a while ; Later I will return, though, as I fear. My skill can nought avail C. Gon. Fare you well, doctor. Monk. This way, then, sir ; I will undo the gate. [Exeunt Physician and Monk. C. Gon. O glorious vessel, in mid-voyage wrecked Upon a sun-lit sea, when all the storms Were laid that tore thee ! Yet how stately still Thou seemest, settling down unto thy rest In the deep silent bosom of all things — Stately and able still to serve mankind Well as of old, but for the doom pronounced That says, it must be. And all this the work Of one false woman ! 296 TASSO. [act v. Re-enter Monk. Monk. Please you, at the gate There is but just arrived a cavalier Squiring two ladies, who as earnestly As though a life upon the issue hung Beg for brief audience of your Eminence. C. Gon. Of me ! What would they have ? Monk. I know not, sir ; But as I turned to bring to you their prayer, One of the ladies, who had yet spoke nought, Said, ' Tell the Cardinal that in the name Of the Tasso whom he knew in Mantua I pray this suit be not by him denied.' C. Gon. Ay, said she so ? Go bring them hither, friend ; That name shall be their passport. \Exit Monk. Enter Lorenzo, Laura, and Claudia. Which is she That in the name of Tasso made her suit ? Lau. 'Twas I, lord Cardinal. You know me not ? But 'tis no marvel ; though I know you well. Nor is that marvel either, for the day That first and last I saw you was that day When last on me he looked, that day you came And 'twixt us twain made parting. C. Gon. She ! O lady, Albeit I was so slow to know you now, SCENE II.] TASSO. 297 Forgot you have I not — nay, but full oft Have thought on you and on your grief that day, Sometimes well-nigh repenting of the share I had in causing it Lau. You now may make Amends, if so you will, C. Gon. O show me how ; Trust me, I would do much. Lau. For tedious years That since that day have passed, my soul hath lived On memories of his voice and of his face, That from each weary waking fill my thoughts Until the wearier lying down to sleep. But lately hath a hunger in me grown To add to these one other memory more, Were't only of a moment — such a hunger That till 'tis satisfied the pain of it Gives me no leave to rest, or e'en to die. For this I came to Rome, in hope to stand In the throng far off, and watch him being crowned. Crowned now I may not see him, but at least May look upon him dying, if so be That you deny me not. C. Gon. Nor would I, lady, But for his sake. You have not thought how much Your presence might disturb the dying hours That 'tis your wish to soothe. Lau. Have I so ill Interpreted myself that to my wish 298 TASSO. [act v. You attribute such presumption ? O no, no, Not to be seen by him, or speak with him, My craving is ; he loves me not enough To give me so much right ; all that I would Is but to look upon his face once more Far off, for one brief instant, he the while Of me nought thinking — and you need not fear That though the sight should move me in my soul Twould bring from me a sound that he could hear. I well am used to curb myself, and know That I can bear in silence. Then I pray, Let not your doubts debar me from the thing I only prize — but trust me. C. Gon. And I do — I do, and will. In his presence you shall stand, And see his face, so you are but content To look upon him sleeping, and to wait Till sleep shall come to him. Lau. Sir, my last prayer, Save one, shall be that Heav'n may make you bless'd For this good deed. And now I have still a boon To ask you for, but this so small that sure 'Twill easily be granted, C. Gon. And what is't ? Lau. My lord, as in this garden I set foot, I saw, hard by the gate, a laurel grow — A fair and stately plant — and to my mind There came a fancy that 'twould do me good. SCENE II.] TASSO. 299 And good perchance to him, if I might lay A branch thereof beside him on his bed. He used to say the laurel was my tree, And I would fain that something that is mine Might at the last lie near him. May this be ? C. Gon. Surely it may ; this boon is small indeed. Lau. Beseech you, good Lorenzo, bring me hither A branch of that same laurel. \Exit Lorenzo. And meantime, Sweet cousin, of your kindness give me help To muffle so myself that if he woke. And saw, he should not know me. Draw my hood Down on my brow — nay, more. 'Tis not enough ; I should have had a veil. O look — your scarf — Lend me ; 'twill serve. Cast it about my head. [Claudia throws her scarf, of blue gauze, spangled with stars, over Laura's head, in such a manner that the latter, being already dressed in black, is rendered an exact counterpart of the second female figure of Tasso's vision in the Fourth Act. Ay, now 'tis right ; I thank you. Re-enter X.oVi^'^zo, with a laurel branch. Loren. Cousin, here I bring what you would have. Lau. [Taking the branch-l A living branch Of the tree he loves — or loved. C. Gon. You are ready now ? Why then, come all within, and there await 30O TASSO. [act v. The fitting moment that to one of you Shall give the promised sight so much desired. [Exeunt. SCENE III. A Room in the Monastery. Tasso discovered on a bed, sitting supported by pil- lows, and surrounded by the Monks of St. Ono- frio and their Prior, the Monks chanting a hymn, to which he listens with hands folded in prayer. Hymn. Soli tibi, Domine, Fides nostra tribuatur ; Solus tu laudabilis, Solus tu amabilis ; Fides nostra tribuatur Soli tibi, Domine. Tecum solo, Domine, Vita floret sempiterna ; Omnis mundi gloria Languet, et victoria; Vita floret sempiterna Tecum solo, Domine. Tas. [the hymn being finished?^ And to Thee only do I look — Thee only — Thou see'st that this is so. For 'tis sure, SCENE III.] TASSO. 3or In Him alone is life that lives indeed, In Him true immortality. The world, And glory of the world, is vain and slight — Not worth the seeking. You are well assured Of this, even as I ? Prior. We know it, son. Tas. I know it too ; I said, and say again. Not worth the seeking — and belike, if had, Not worth the keeping. Glory is of earth. And all the things of earth have once been dust, And must be dust again ; what should it serve To have filched a handful more than other men Of powdered rottenness ? For me, no longer I reck of glory, and have only Heaven For my ambition now. Prior. And e'en herein Hath Heaven shown its favour to thee, son. Putting this new ambition in thy heart. So gracious in its manner and its end — One to all others most unlike in this, That it makes happy, peaceful, and content, As in this hour thou provest. Tas. Happy ! — Yea, Happy — no doubt I am happy. But 'twas time ; I have had long to wait, much to endure. A hard life, father, mine hath been, all told. Prior. Alas ! too well I know. Tas. So dost thou say ; But thou know'st not^not thou nor any here. 302 TASSO. [act v. How should you, peaceful men fenced from the world And wounds of worldly battle ? holy men, By vows made safe from women — ay, therein Your great exemption lies — how should you know What evil may be wrought upon a man By a woman, a false woman ? Look on me, If you would learn how much. Friot. Nay, nay, I pray, Feed not your thoughts with such unwholesome food. Tas. If not with that, with what? I have no mem'ries But those that she hath made me, of a life Ruined and slain by her. Ay, thou false witch, I say by thee, who like a shadow stealest Across my glory, shrivelling it up Into abhorred corruption. It was here. Was well-nigh on my head, and now is gone, Blighted by thee. O who will give me back My glory — my lost glory ? Prior. What ! again On earthly glory do thy thoughts decUne ? I deemed thou now hadst found a higher care. Tas. O pardon ; that is so. I had forgot ; I will remember better. Yet 'tis strange How true it is what I have somewhere read, That ever is ambition the last garment Whereof the wise man strips himself. But now 'Tis off— 'tis wholly off. SCENE III.] TASSO. ' 303 Prior. So much the sooner Wilt thou achieve Heav'n's glory, as thou most Despisest that of earth. Tas. I do despise — Believe me, Heaven. Nay, I'll bring a proof. Prior, you know that I have tendered always My writings as my children, unto me No children else being given. Burn them, burn. Is that enough ? Prior. Beseech you, be more calm. Tas. Make it your work to seek them through the world, Where'er rhen read them — burn them all, I say, And leave not one behind. Prior. Thou ravest, son. Tas. I know the task is hard, since they so far Are spread and multiplied, but if you fail The fault will not be mine ; you see I am willing. And Heaven sees I am willing, and will sure Be reconciled at last, and give me rest — A little rest, for I am sore in need. So tired I yet was never. Prior. You are tired With bootless self-disturbings. Lie you down. And give yourself some quiet. Tas. You say right ; I-cannot hold out longer. Take away Some of these pillows — so. Ay, that is well. It may be I shall sleep, for now I feel 304 TASSO. [act v. I am of Heav'n accepted. Give me music ; {Solemn music. How good to hear sweet music ! [Sleeps, the music still continuing. Enter Cardinal Gonzaga. C. Gon. Say, what news? How doth he fare ? Prior. Your Eminence, at last Methinks he sleeps, tired out by restlessness. C. Gon. Sleeps ! this suits well. Good fathers, whatsoe'er I now may do, look on, and question not. I have made a promise which I needs must keep. \Goes to the door and beckons. Approach ; the time is come. Enter Laura, veiled as at the end of the previous scene, the laurel branch in her hand. She approaches the bed on which Tasso lies, and is about to lay doiim the branch, when he suddenly awakes and starts up. Tas. Who's there? What! thou! Thou — in this room — 'mong shapes of flesh and blood, And real faces — thou ! [Laura retreats, and is about to leave the room!] Stay, stay ! Nay, stay ! What ! wilt forsake me even when I die ? I am dying ; may I not have first one look — One look of that which Heav'n appointed me SCENE iii.J TASSO. 305 For my good angel ? Lau. {^Tearing off her vei7.] Ha ! thou know'st me then ! Thou know'st me, my Torquato ! Tas. Laura! Thou! My guardian spirit and good angel, thou ! And yet might I have known. But now I know. Unto my heart ! come ! come ! \IIoldmg out his arms ; she rushes into them.\ O had but eyes Been given to me earlier — the eyes Wherewith at last I see ! Far, far, my love, I have wandered since I left thee, and been bruised By many a batt'ring storm, .but now once more Am safe in port, and to thine arms come home, Within thine arms to die. Yet O blind fool. Blind fool that I have been ! \A sound of knocking is heard. A Voice without. Make open, ho ! Make open, in his Holiness's name. A Monk opens the door, and Enter the Pop^s Chamber- lain, followed by Attendants, one of whom carries a cushion with a laurel crown resting on it. Cham. God's blessing be with all ! His Holiness Sends us to set the laurel on the brow Of him whose wearing more will honour it Than it hath honoured others in time past — The glorious poet Tasso. 3o6 TASSO. [act v. Tas. O see there ! Now, e'en in this first moment of my life That nought I care for it, unsought it comes ! And sooner might have come if always thus I had been content to heed it not, and make My strivings for the prize of happy love, That now I see alone worth striving for. Who seeks but glory can but glory get. Since better things must for themselves be wooed ; But unto him who seeks those better things She, being meretricious, oft may throw Unasked her favour. Thus it might have been With me if I had known. But now — at last — Thou hast taught me now, my Laura. \_After a pause, turning to the Chamberlain.^ Sir, declare Unto his Holiness my thanks, but say I have already found my laurel crown, And wear it on my heart. Love, nearer yet ; I am weak, and cannot clasp thee close enough — Ay, on my heart — my laurel on my heart — Here on my heart — 'tis so. [Dies. Prior. [To Chamberlain.^ Alas ! too late You were sent upon your errand ; he is gone Where honours cannot reach him. Cham. But the Pope Commanded that if e'en we found him lie In death already, we should nathless set This sign of earthly glory on his head SCENE III.] TASSO. 307 And of the favour of his Holiness. [Approaches the bed with .his Attendants. Lau. [Looking up suddenly i\ What would you ? Ay, is't so ? O have your way ; Put on his brow the laurel if you will. But dare not seek to take it from his heart, For there it lives, and thence shall never part. [Sinks down embracing Tasso's body. The laurel i placed on his head by the Chamberlain, and the Curtain falls. The End. LONDON : Printed by John Strangeways, Castle St. Leicester Sq, BY THE SAME AUTHOR. LADY JANE GREY. INEZ; or, The Bride of Portugal. 2)]]inian0 of t|)e IPtees. PALL MALL GAZETTE (Jan. 19, 1872). ' These two tragedies possess the features which are essential, as Mr. Arnold has pointed out, to really fine poetry. In both the action is noble, the expression beautiful and consistent ; in both the reader will be less struck by isolated passages, remarkable though many of these are, than by the congruity of the whole. In the simple mode of telling his story Mr. Ross Neil resembles a careful chronicler ; in the distinctness of the characters he shows his skill as a dramatist ; and throughout his tragedies the play of a carefully regulated imagination marks the dominant faculty of the poet. Mr. Ross Neil is not the first dramatist who has chosen Lady Jane Grey's misfortunes as the subject for a tragedy ; but it may be safely sairf that he alone has done justice to the theme.' SATURDAY REVIEW (Dec. 16, 187 1). ' If the choice of really dramatic subject-matter, and a treatment as sound and delicate as it is completely free from affectation, are worth appreciation, these two plays deserve a sincere welcome. . . . A composition of remarkable merit and strength. . . . The author's method is so simple and self-contained as to suggest the piure severity of Greek drama.' ATHEN^UM (Dec. 30, 1871). ' Superior to anything that has lately appeared in the shape of dramatic literature. ' DAILY NEWS {Marcfi 23, 1872). ' For the first time the beautiful character of Lady Jane Grey may be said to have found a competent poetical interpreter. ' By the same Author. THE CID. THE KING AND THE ANGEL. DUKE rOB A DAT ; or. The Tailor of Brussels. SATURDAY REVIEW {.May 9, 1874). ' The three plays which are contained in this volume are marked by the same qualities of vigorous simpUcity and artistic finish which distinguished Mr. Ross Neil's earlier efforts. . . . Will be read with pleasure by all who can appreciate tender and elevated poetry, as well as by those who relish the vividness of dramatic recital. We should be glad to malce the acquaintance of some of his works on the scene on which they are, if not intended, at least well fitted to be produced. . . . The severe historical simplicity of " Lady Jane Grey '■' would, with capable performers, be extremely impressive on the stage; but possibly such a piece as "The Cid," which contains strong situations and is full of variety and movement, would be more certain of commanding immediate favour. ' SPECTATOR (Jtdy 25, 1874). ' If it were possible, as has been frequently proposed, to have one theatre in London for the sole representation of the poetical drama, and if this idea, so fruitful in suggestion, could be carried out satis- factorily by actors who were proud of their calling, and before a sympathetic audience, Mr. Neil's dramas would be received, we think, with the approval they merit. Of the three plays before us, the first appears eminently fitted for the stage, or rather for what the stage was in the days of Mrs. Siddons and John Kemble.' PALL MALL GAZETTE (Nm. 17, 1874). ' The artistic qualities manifest in Mr. Neil's tragedies, " Lady Jane Grey "and "Inez," are equally evident in "The Cid." . . . The skill exhibited in the construction of the plot is striking, and the play is generally free from those occasional marks of weakness which destroy the symmetry of so many otherwise fine productions.' SCOTSMAN [July 17, 1874). ' It is difficult in reading these plays to say which the reader will most admire, the exquisite sweetness of the poetry, or the strength of their dramatic character. . . . They coiid scarcely fail, if put upon the stage, to give as much pleasure to those who witnessed them as they will to every one who may read them. . . . The third play, "Duke for a Day," is intensely humorous, and it is also managed with infinite sltill and elegance.' By the same Author. ELFINELLA; or. Home from Fairyland. LOBD AITD I.ADY BUSSELL. ATHEN^UM (July 29, 1876). 'It ['■ Elfinella"] is very refined, elegant, and fanciful in treat- ment, and displays much poetic taste and culture. ... In dealing with Lord and Lady Russell, Mr. Ross Neil has supplied a striking picture of the court of the second Charles. . . . Mr. Ross Neil's, work is admirably firm and conscientious, and his drama will main- tain a place in literature.' SATURDAY REVIEW (April 2% 1876). ' This bare outline, however, gives a very insufficient idea of the graceful mingling of humour and tenderness with which the joyous but idle sportiveness of Fairyland is contrasted with the deep and serious experiences of human life. ... A natural and suggestive study of character, in which even the fairies are felt to be at home, .... Plays of this kind ["Lord and Lady Russell"], dealing with subjects of national interest, and in a tone which excites sympathy with the noblest emotions, might do much in making public opinion not only more refined and intellectual, but more robust.' WESTMINSTER REVIEW (July, 1876). 'Mr. Neil's "Elfinella; or. Home from Fairyland," breathes the same spirit as the "Midsummer Night's Dream," or "The Faithful Shepherdess," or "The Sad Shepherd."' LONDON QUARTERLY REVIEW (Oct. 1876). ' The subject [of ' ' Elfinella "] is most gracefully wound through the four acts of the drama, and the conclusion is eminently satis- factory. " Lord and Lady Russell," though painful as any drama on such a subject must be, is full of genuine pathos, and strong in human interest throughout We can imagine that many would select " Lord and Lady Russell " as Ross Neil's masterpiece.' TIMES (December \, 1876). ' We have read with pleasure several of Mr. Ross Neil's earlier dramas — "Inez," "Duke for a Day," "Lady Jane Grey, " and " The Cid." But as " Elfinella " has been actually submitted to the prac- tical test of the stage, we prefer to single that out for notice While the gentle flow of domestic interest seizes on our sympathy By the same Author. from the first, and carries it along to the end, the author has con- centrated his energies on certain effective situations, to which every- thing else is carefully subordinated. The emotions excited by the action under thriUing circumstances of the most exalted passions in our nature are relieved by a lively play of fancy." PALL MALL GAZETTE I^May i, 1877). ' We have left ourselves no space for any adequate criticism of " Lord and Lady Russell;" but we regret this the less since on previous occasions we have given our impression of IVIr. Neil's merit as an historical dramatist. The play is admirably conceived, and the execution is worthy of the conception.' SCOTSMAN (Apnl2.\, 1876). ' The volumes which Mr. Neil has already published have gained the good opinion of those who could understand what real poetry was, and how much more powerful it may often be made when poetic genius is allied with dramatic instinct. . . . It [" Elfinella "] is in truth one of the most interesting of Mr. Neil's plays, because, perhaps, it is the most fanciful The treatment of the story ["Lord and Lady Russell"] is suggestive and eminently artistic throughout There is not a touch in the whole piece that is not highly dramatic' TEMPLE BAR (January, 1878). ' We have lingered too long over " Inez " to be able to say much of the other plays. ''The Cid," however, it may be said, has the same qualities of dramatic fire and strength that belong to " Inez," and is, as it stands, better suited for stage performance. " Duke for a Day " reveals unexpected traits of keen and unforced humour and satire Our object has been to point out that the art of dramatic poetry in England is not so destitute of new life as it is sometimes said to be.' LO.NDON: ELLIS & WHITE, 29 NEW BOND STREET.