Yet will not I, poor Jane! on thee exclaim.
Though guilty thou, I guiltless suffer shame.
I left this land, too little for my grief;
Returning, am accounted as a thief,
Who in that ship came but a passenger
To see my friends, hoping the death of her;
At sight of whom some sparks of former love
(Hid in affection's ashes) pity move,
Kindling compassion in my broken heart,
That bleeds to think on her ensuing smart.
O, see weak women's imperfections
That leave their husbands' safe protections,
Hazarding all on strangers' flatteries,
Whose lust allay'd, leaves them to miseries!
See what dishonour breach of wedlock brings,
Which is not safe, ev'n in the arms of kings!
Thus do I, Jane, lament thy present state,
Wishing my tears thy torments might abate.
Enter the Queen, and the Marquis of Dorset, leading Jane Shore, who falls on her knees before the Queen, fearful and weeping.
Queen. Now, as I am a queen, a goodly creature! Son, how was she attended? where found you her? Mar. Madam, I found her at the Marshalsea, Going to visit the poor prisoners,
As she came by, having been to take the air;
And there the keeper told me she oft deals
Such bounteous alms as seldom hath been seen.
Queen. Now, before God! she would make a gallant
But, good son Dorset, stand aside awhile.
God save your Majesty! my Lady Shore!
My Lady Shore, said I? Oh, blasphemy,
To wrong your title with a lady's name!
Queen Shore! nay, rather Empress Shore!
God save your grace, your majesty, your highness!
Lord! I want titles; you must pardon me.
What! you kneel there? King Edward's bedfellow,
And I, your subject, sit! fie, fie for shame!
Come take your place; and I'll kneel where you do.
I may take your place: you have taken mine.
Good lord, that you will so debase yourself!
I am sure, you are our sister-queen at least:
Nay, that you are. Then let us sit together.
Jane. Great queen! yet hear me, if my sin committed
Have not stopt up all passage to your mercy.
To tell the wrongs that I have done your highness,
Might make revenge exceed extremity.
Oh, had I words or tongue to utter it,
To plead my woman's weakness, and his strength,
That was the only worker of my fall,
Ev'n Innocence herself would blush for shame,
Once to be nam'd or spoken of in this.
Let them expect for mercy whose offence
May but be called sin. Oh, mine is more.
Prostrate as earth before your highness' feet,
Inflict what torments you shall think most meet.
Mar. Spurn the whore, mother! tear those enticing
That robb'd you of King Edward's dearest love.
Mangle those locks, the baits to his desires.
Let me come to her: you but stand and talk,
As if revenge consisted but in words.
Queen. Son! stand aloof, and do not trouble me.
(Aside.) Alas, poor soul! as much ado have I
To forbear tears to keep her company.
Yet once more will I to my former humour.
(Aloud.) Why, as I am, think that thou wert a queen ; And I as thou should wrong thy princely bed,
And win the King thy husband, as thou mine:
Would it not sting thy soul? Or if that I,
Being a queen, while thou didst love thy husband,
Should but have done as thou hast done to me,
Would it not grieve thee? Yes, I warrant thee.
There's not the meanest woman that doth live,
But if she like and love her husband well,
She had rather feel his warm limbs in her bed,
Than see him in the arms of any queen.
You are flesh and blood as we, and we as you,
And all alike in our affections,
Though majesty makes us the more ambitious.
What 'tis to fall into so great a hand,
Knowledge might teach thee. There was once a king,
Henry the Second, who did keep his leman
Cag'd up at Woodstock in a labyrinth:
His queen yet got a trick to find her out;
And how she us'd her, I am sure thou hast heard.
Thou art not mew'd up in some secret place;
But kept in court here, underneath my nose.
Now, in the absence of my lord the King,
Have I not time most fitting for revenge?
Fair Rosamond, she a pure virgin was,
Until the king seduc'd her to his will.
She wrong'd but one bed; only the angry Queen's;
But thou hast wronged two; mine and thy husband's.
Be thine own judge, and now in justice see
What due revenge I ought to take on thee.
Jane. Ev'n what you will, great queen! here do I lie, Humble and prostrate at your highness' feet; Inflict on me what may revenge your wrong: Was never lamb abode more patiently
Than I will do. Call all your griefs to mind;
And do ev'n what you will, or how likes you,
I will not stir—I will not shriek or cry,
Be it torture, poison, any punishment,
Was never dove or turtle more submiss,
Than I will be unto your chastisement.
Mar. Fetch'd I her for this? mother, let me come to her; And what compassion will not suffer you
To do to her, refer the same to me.
Queen. Touch her not, son, upon thy life I charge thee! But keep off still, if thou wilt have my love.
I am glad to hear ye are so well resolv'd
To bear the burthen of my just displeasure. [She draws a knife, and making as though she meant to spoil Jane Shore's face, runs to her, and falling on her knees, embraces and kisses her, throwing away the knife.
Thus, then, I'll do. Alas, poor soul!
Shall I weep with thee? in faith, poor heart, I will.
Be of good comfort: thou shalt have no harm;
But if that kisses have the power to kill thee,
Thus, thus, and thus, a thousand times I'll stab thee.
Jane, I forgive thee! What fort is so strong,
But, with besieging, he will batter it?
Weep not, sweet Jane! alas, I know thy sex,
Touch'd with the self-same weakness that thou art :
And if my state had been as mean as thine,
And such a beauty to allure his eye
(Though I may promise much to mine own strength), What might have hapt to me I cannot tell.
Nay, fear not; for I speak it with my heart,
And in thy sorrow truly bear a part.
Jane. Most high and mighty Queen! may I believe There can be found such mercy in a woman?
And in a queen, more then in a wife,
So deeply wrong'd as I have wronged you?
In this bright chrystal mirror of your mercy,
I see the greatness of my sin the more,
And makes my fault more odious in mine eyes.
Your princely pity now doth wound me more
Than all your threat'nings ever did before.
Queen. Rise, my sweet Jane! I say thou shalt not kneel;
Oh, God forbid! that Edward's queen should hate
Her whom she knows he doth so dearly love.
My love to her may purchase me his love.
Jane, speak well to the King of me and mine;
Remember not my son's o'er-hasty speech;
Thou art my sister, and I love thee so.
I know thou may'st do much with my dear lord.
Speak well of us to him in any case,
And I and mine will love and cherish thee.
Jane. All I can do is all too little too,
But to requite the least part of this grace.
The dearest thoughts that harbour in this breast
Shall in your service only be exprest.
Enter King Edward, angrily, his Lords following.
King. What, is my Jane with her? It is too true. See where she hath her down upon her knees! Why, how now, Bess? what, will ye wrong my Jane? Come hither, love! what hath she done to thee?
[Jane falls on her knees to the King. Jane. Oh, royal Edward! love thy beauteous Queen!
The only perfect mirror of her kind,
For all the choicest virtues can be named!
Oh, let not my bewitching looks withdraw
Your dear affections from your dearer queen!
But to requite the grace that she hath shown
To me, the worthless creature on this earth,
To banish me the Court immediately.
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