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Scene.—In Prison, before Chastelard’s Execution.
Queen. Would God my heart were greater; but God wot | |
| I have no heart to bear with fear and die. | |
| Yea, and I cannot help you: or I know | |
| I should be nobler, bear a better heart: | |
| But as this stands—I pray you for good love, | 5 |
| As you hold honor a costlier thing than life— | |
| Chastelard. Well? | |
| Queen. Nay, I would not be denied for shame; | |
| In brief, I pray you give me that again. | |
| Chast. What, my reprieve? | 10 |
| Queen. Even so; deny me not. | |
| For your sake mainly: yea, by God you know | |
| How fain I were to die in your death’s stead, | |
| For your name’s sake. This were no need to swear, | |
| Lest we be mock’d to death with a reprieve, | 15 |
| And so both die, being sham’d. What, shall I swear? | |
| What, if I kiss you? must I pluck it out? | |
| You do not love me: no, nor honor. Come, | |
| I know you have it about you: give it me. | |
| Chast. I cannot yield you such a thing again; | 20 |
| Not as I had it. | |
| Queen. A coward? what shift now? | |
| Do such men make such cravens? | |
| Chast. Chide me not: | |
| Pity me that I cannot help my heart. | 25 |
| Queen. Heaven mend mine eyes that took you for a man! | |
| What, is it sewn into your flesh? take heed— | |
| Nay, but for shame—what have you done with it? | |
| Chast. Why, there it lies, torn up. | |
| Queen. God help me, sir! | 30 |
| Have you done this? | |
| Chast. Yea, sweet; what should I do? | |
| Did I not know you to the bone, my sweet? | |
| God speed you well? you have a goodly lord. | |
| Queen. My love, sweet love, you are more fair than he, | 35 |
| Yea, fairer many times: I love you much, | |
| Sir, know you that? | |
| Chast. I think I know that well. | |
| Sit here a little till I feel you through | |
| In all my breath and blood for some sweet while. | 40 |
| O gracious body that mine arms have had, | |
| And hair my face has felt on it! grave eyes | |
| And low thick lids that keep since years agone | |
| In the blue sweet of each particular vein | |
| Some special print of me! I am right glad | 45 |
| That I must never feel a bitterer thing | |
| Than your soft curl’d-up shoulder and amorous arms | |
| From this time forth; nothing can hap to me | |
| Less good than this for all my whole life through. | |
| I would not have some new pain after this | 50 |
| Come spoil the savor. O, your round bird’s throat, | |
| More soft than sleep or singing; your calm cheeks, | |
| Turn’d bright, turn’d wan with kisses hard and hot; | |
| The beautiful color of your deep curv’d hands, | |
| Made of a red rose that had changed to white; | 55 |
| That mouth mine own holds half the sweetness of, | |
| Yea, my heart holds the sweetness of it, whence | |
| My life began in me; mine that ends here | |
| Because you have no mercy,—nay, you know | |
| You never could have mercy. My fair love, | 60 |
| Kiss me again, God loves you not the less; | |
| Why should one woman have all goodly things? | |
| You have all beauty; let mean women’s lips | |
| Be pitiful and speak truth: they will not be | |
| Such perfect things as yours. Be not asham’d | 65 |
| That hands not made like these that snare men’s souls | |
| Should do men good, give alms, relieve men’s pain; | |
| You have the better, being more fair than they, | |
| They are half foul, being rather good than fair; | |
| You are quite fair: to be quite fair is best. | 70 |
| Why, two nights hence I dream’d that I could see | |
| In through your bosom under the left flower, | |
| And there was a round hollow, and at heart | |
| A little red snake sitting, without spot, | |
| That bit—like this, and suck’d up sweet—like this, | 75 |
| And curl’d its lithe light body right and left, | |
| And quiver’d like a woman in act to love. | |
| Then there was some low flutter’d talk i’ the lips, | |
| Faint sound of soft fierce words caressing them— | |
| Like a fair woman’s when her love gets way. | 80 |
| Ah, your old kiss—I know the ways of it: | |
| Let the lips cling a little. Take them off, | |
| And speak some word, or I go mad with love. | |
| Queen. Will you not have my chaplain come to you? | |
| Chast. Some better thing of yours—some handkerchief, | 85 |
| Some fringe of scarf to make confession to— | |
| You had some book about you that fell out— | |
| Queen. A little written book of Ronsard’s rhymes, | |
| His gift, I wear in there for love of him— | |
| See, here between our feet. | 90 |
| Chast. Ay, my old lord’s— | |
| The sweet chief poet, my dear friend long since? | |
| Give me the book. Lo you, this verse of his: | |
| With coming lilies in late April came | |
| Her body, fashion’d whiter for their shame; | 95 |
| And roses, touch’d with blood since Adon bled, | |
| From her fair color fill’d their lips with red: | |
| A goodly praise: I could not praise you so. | |
| I read that while your marriage-feast went on. | |
| Leave me this book, I pray you: I would read | 100 |
| The hymn of death here over ere I die; | |
| I shall know soon how much he knew of death | |
| When that was written. One thing I know now, | |
| I shall not die with half a heart at least, | |
| Nor shift my face, nor weep my fault alive, | 105 |
| Nor swear if I might live and do new deeds | |
| I would do better. Let me keep the book. | |
| Queen. Yea, keep it: as would God you had kept your life | |
| Out of mine eyes and hands. I am wrung to the heart: | |
| This hour feels dry and bitter in my mouth | 110 |
| As if its sorrow were my body’s food | |
| More than my soul’s. There are bad thoughts in me— | |
| Most bitter fancies biting me like birds | |
| That tear each other. Suppose you need not die? | |
| Chast. You know I cannot live for two hours more. | 115 |
| Our fate was made thus ere our days were made: | |
| Will you fight fortune for so small a grief? | |
| But for one thing I were full fain of death. | |
| Queen What thing is that? | |
| Chast. None need to name the thing. | 120 |
| Why, what can death do with me fit to fear? | |
| For if I sleep I shall not weep awake; | |
| Or if their saying be true of things to come, | |
| Though hell be sharp, in the worst ache of it | |
| I shall be eas’d so God will give me back | 125 |
| Sometimes one golden gracious sight of you— | |
| The aureole woven flowerlike through your hair, | |
| And in your lips the little laugh as red | |
| As when it came upon a kiss and ceas’d, | |
| Touching my mouth. | 130 |
| Queen. As I do now, this way, | |
| With my heart after: would I could shed tears, | |
| Tears should not fail when the heart shudders so. | |
| But your bad thought? | |
| Chast. Well, such a thought as this: | 135 |
| It may be, long time after I am dead, | |
| For all you are, you may see bitter days; | |
| God may forget you or be wroth with you: | |
| Then shall you lack a little help of me, | |
| And I shall feel your sorrow touching you, | 140 |
| A happy sorrow, though I may not touch: | |
| I that would fain be turn’d to flesh again, | |
| Fain get back life to give up life for you, | |
| To shed my blood for help, that long ago | |
| You shed and were not holpen: and your heart | 145 |
| Will ache for help and comfort, yea, for love, | |
| And find less love than mine—for I do think | |
| You never will be lov’d thus in your life. | |
| Queen It may be man will never love me more; | |
| For I am sure I shall not love man twice. | 150 |
| Chast. I know not: men must love you in life’s spite, | |
| For you will always kill them; man by man | |
| Your lips will bite them dead; yea, though you would, | |
| You shall not spare one; all will die of you; | |
| I cannot tell what love shall do with these, | 155 |
| But I for all my love shall have no might | |
| To help you more, mine arms and hands no power | |
| To fasten on you more. This cleaves my heart, | |
| That they shall never touch your body more. | |
| But for your grief—you will not have to grieve; | 160 |
| For being in such poor eyes so beautiful | |
| It must needs be as God is more than I | |
| So much more love he hath of you than mine; | |
| Yea, God shall not be bitter with my love, | |
| Seeing she is so sweet. | 165 |
| Queen. Ah, my sweet fool, | |
| Think you when God will ruin me for sin | |
| My face of color shall prevail so much | |
| With him, so soften the tooth’d iron’s edge | |
| To save my throat a scar? Nay, I am sure | 170 |
| I shall die somehow sadly. | |
| Chast. This is pure grief; | |
| The shadow of your pity for my death, | |
| Mere foolishness of pity: all sweet moods | |
| Throw out such little shadows of themselves, | 175 |
| Leave such light fears behind. You, die like me? | |
| Stretch your throat out that I may kiss all round | |
| Where mine shall be cut through: suppose my mouth | |
| The axe-edge to bite so sweet a throat in twain | |
| With bitter iron, should not it turn soft | 180 |
| As lip is soft to lip? | |
| Queen. I am quite sure | |
| I shall die sadly some day, Chastelard; | |
| I am quite certain. | |
| Chast. Do not think such things; | 185 |
| Lest all my next world’s memories of you be | |
| As heavy as this thought. | |
| Queen. I will not grieve you; | |
| Forgive me that my thoughts were sick with grief. | |
| What can I do to give you ease at heart? | 190 |
| Shall I kiss now? I pray you have no fear | |
| But that I love you. | |
| Chast. Turn your face to me; | |
| I do not grudge your face this death of mine; | |
| It is too fair—by God, you are too fair. | 195 |
| What noise is that? | |
| Queen. Can the hour be through so soon? | |
| I bade them give me but a little hour. | |
| Ah! I do love you! such brief space for love! | |
| I am yours all through, do all your will with me; | 200 |
| What if we lay and let them take us fast, | |
| Lips grasping lips. I dare do anything. | |
| Chast. Show better cheer: let no man see you maz’d; | |
| Make haste and kiss me; cover up your throat, | |
| Lest one see tumbled lace and prate of it. | 205 |
Enter the guard. | |
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