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Enter COUNT DE FERIA (kneels).

Feria. I trust your Grace is well.

(A side) How her hand burns ! Mary. I am not well, but it will better

me, Sir Count, to read the letter which you

bring.
Feria. Madam, I bring no letter.
Mary.

How ! no letter?
Feria. His Highness is so vex'd with

strange affairs--Mary. That his own wife is no affair

of his. Feria. Nay, Madam, nay ! he sends

his veriest love, And says, he will come quickly. Mary.

Doth he, indeed ? You, sir, do you remember what you said When last you came to England ? Feria.

Madam, I brought · My King's congratulations ; it was hoped Your Highness was once more in happy

state To give him an heir male. Mary.

Sir, you said more; You said he would come quickly. I had

horses On all the road from Dover, day and

night; On all the road from Harwich, night and

day; But the child came not, and the husband

came not ; And yet he will come quickly. . . Thou

hast learnt Thy lesson, and I mine. There is no

need For Philip so to shame himself again. Return, And tell him that I know he comes no

more. Tell him at last I know his love is dead,

And that I am in state to bring forth

deathThou art commission'd to Elizabeth, And not to me!

Feria. Mere compliments and wishes. But shall I take some message from your

Grace?
Mary. Tell her to come and close my

dying eyes, And wear my crown, and dance upon my

grave. Feria. Then I may say your Grace

will see your sister ? Your Grace is too low-spirited. Air and

sunshine. I would we had you, Madam, in our warm

Spain.
You droop in your dim London.
Mary.

Have him away! I sicken of his readiness.

Lady Clarence. My Lord Count, Her Highness is too ill for colloquy. Feria (kneels, and kisses her hand). I

wish her Highness better. (Aside) How her hand burns! [Exeunt.

SCENE III.-A HOUSE NEAR

LONDON.

ELIZABETH, STEWARD OF THE HOUSE

HOLD, ATTENDANTS.
Elizabeth. There's half an angel

wrongd in your account ; Methinks I am all angel, that I bear it Without more ruffling. Cast it o'er again. Steward. I were whole devil if I wrong'd you, Madam.

[Exit Steward. Attendant. The Count de Feria, from

the King of Spain. Elisabeth. Ah !-let him enter. Nay, you need not go :

[To her Ladies. Remain within the chamber, but apart. We'll have no private conference. Wel.

come to England !

Enter FERIA.

Feria. Fair island star!
Elisabeth. I shine! What else,

Sir Count?
Feria. As far as France, and into

Philip's heart.
My King would know if you be fairly

served, And lodged, and treated.

Elizabeth. You see the lodging, sir, I am well-served, and am in everything Most loyal and most grateful to the

Queen.
Feria. You should be grateful to my

master, too. He spoke of this ; and unto him you owe That Mary hath acknowledged you her

heir. Elizabeth. No, not to her nor him ;

but to the people, Who know my right, and love me, as I

love The people ! whom God aid ! Feria.

You will be Queen, And, were I PhilipElizabeth. Wherefore pause you

what? Feria. Nay, but I speak from mine

own self, not him ; Your royal sister cannot last ; your hand Will be much coveted! What a delicate

one! Our Spanish ladies have none such—and

there, Were you in Spain, this fine fair gossamer

goldLike sun-gilt breathings on a frosty

dawnThat hovers round your shoulder

Elizabeth.

Is it so fine? Troth, some have said so.

Feria. —would be deemed a miracle.
Elizabeth. Your Philip hath gold hair

and golden beard ; There must be ladies many with hair like

mine. Feria. Some few of Gothic blood have

golden hair, But none like yours.

Elizabeth. I am happy you approve it.
Feria. But as to Philip and your

Grace-consider, -
If such a one as you should match with

Spain, What hinders but that Spain and England

join'd, Should make the mightiest empire earth

has known. Spain would be England on her seas, and

England
Mistress of the Indies.
Elizabeth. It may chance, that

England
Will be the Mistress of the Indies yet,
Without the help of Spain.
Feria.

Impossible ;
Except you put Spain down.
Wide of the mark ev'n for a madman's

dream. Elisabeth. Perhaps ; but we have

seamen. Count de Feria, I take it that the King hath spoken to you; But is Don Carlos such a goodly match ? Feria. Don Carlos, Madam, is but

twelve years old. Elizabeth. Ay, tell the King that I

will muse upon it; He is my good friend, and I would keep

him so ; But--he would have me Catholic of Rome, And that I scarce can be ; and, sir, till

now

My sister's marriage, and my father's

marriages, Make me full fain to live and die a maid. But I am much beholden to your King. Have you aught else to tell me ? Feria.

Nothing, Madam, Save that methought I gather'd from the

Queen That she would see your Grace before she

-died. Elizabeth God's death ! and where.

fore spake you not before ? We dally with our lazy moments here, And hers are number'd. Horses there,

without ! I am much beholden to the King, your

master. Why did you keep me prating ? Horses,

there ! (Exit Elizabeth, &c. Feria. So from a clear sky falls the

thunderbolt ! Don Carlos ? Madam, if you marry

Philip, Then I and he will snaffle your 'God's

death, And break your paces in, and make you

tame; God's death, forsooth--you do not know King Philip.

[Exit.

Second,

Amen. Come on.

[Excunt. Two OTHERS. First. There's the Queen's light. I

hear she cannot live. Second. God curse her and her Legate!

Gardiner burns Already ; but to pay them full in kind, The hottest hold in all the devil's den Were but a sort of winter ; sir, in Guern

sey, I watch'd a woman burn ; and in her

agony The mother came upon her-a child was

bornAnd, sir, they hurl'd it back into the fire, That, being but baptised in fire, the

babe Might be in fire for ever. Ah, good

neighbour, There should be something fierier than

fire To yield them their deserts. First.

Amen to all Your wish, and further.

A Third Voice. Deserts ! Amen to what? Whose deserts? Yours? You have a gold ring on your finger, and soft raiment about your body; and is not the woman up yonder sleeping after all she has done, in peace and quietness, on a soft bed, in a closed room, with light, fire, physic, tendance ; and I have seen the true men of Christ lying famine-dead by scores, and under no ceiling but the cloud that wept on them, not for them. First. Friend, tho' so late, it is not

safe to preach. You had best go home. What are you?

Third. What am I? One who cries continually with sweat and tears to the Lord God that it would please Him out of His infinite love to break down all

SCENE IV.-LONDON. BEFORE THE

PALACE. A light burning within. Voices of the

night passing. First. Is not yon light in the Queen's

chamber?
Second.

Ay,
They say she's dying.
First.

So is Cardinal Pole. May the great angels join their wings,

and make Down for their heads to heaven !

kingship and queenship, all priesthood and prelacy; to cancel and abolish all bonds of human allegiance, all the magistracy, all the nobles, and all the wealthy ; and to send us again, according to His promise, the one King, the Christ, and all things in common, as in the day of the first church, when Christ Jesus was King. First. If ever I heard a madman, —

let's away! Why, you long-winded — Sir, you go

beyond me. I pride myself on being moderate. Good night! Go home. Besides, you

curse so loud, The watch will hear you. Get you home at once.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.-LONDON. A ROOM IN

THE PALACE. A Gallery on one side. The moonlight

streaming through a range of windows on the wall opposite. Mary, LADY CLARENCE, LADY MAGDALEN DACRES, ALICE. QUEEN pacing the Gallery. A writing-table in front. QUEEN comes to the table and writes and goes again, pacing the Gallery, Lady Clarence. Mine eyes are dim :

what hath she written ? read. Alice. “I am dying, Philip ; come to

me.' Lady Magdalen. There—up and down,

poor lady, up and down. Alice. And how her shadow crosses

one by one The moonlight casements pattern'd on

the wall, Following her like her sorrow. She

turns again. [Queen sits and writes, and goes again.

Lady Clarence. What hath she written

now? Alice. Nothing ; but come, come,

come,' and all awry, And blotted by her tears. This cannot last.

(Queen returns. Mary. I whistle to the bird has broken

cage, And all in vain. [Sitting down. Calais gone—Guisnes gone, too—and

Philip gone !
Lady Clarence. Dear Madam, Philip

is but at the wars ;
I cannot doubt but that he comes again ;
And he is with you in a measure still.
I never look'd upon so fair a likeness
As your great King in armour there, his

hand Upon his helmet.

[Pointing to the portrait of Philip on

the wall. Mary. Doth he not look noble ? I had heard of him in battle over seas, And I would have my warrior all in arms. He said it was not courtly to stand

helmeted Before the Queen. He had his gracious

moment, Altho’ you'll not believe me. How he

smiles As if he loved me yet !

Lady Clarence. And so he does. Mary. He never loved me—nay, he

could not love me. It was his father's policy against France. I am eleven years older than he, Poor boy!

[Weeps. Alice. That was a lusty boy of twentyseven ;

(Aside. Poor enough in God's grace ! Mary.

And all in vain ! The Queen of Scots is married to the

Dauphin,

And Charles, the lord of this low world,

is gone; And all his wars and wisdoms past away; And in a moment I shall follow him. Lady Clarence. Nay, dearest Lady,

see your good physician. Mary. Drugs—but he knows they

cannot help me--says That rest is all-tells me I must not

thinkThat I must rest—I shall rest by-and-by. Catch the wild cat, cage him, and when

he springs And maims himself against the bars, say

rest': Why, you must kill him if you would have

him rest Dead or alive you cannot make him happy. Lady Clarence. Your Majesty has

lived so pure a life, And done such mighty things by Holy

Church, I trust that God will make you happy yet. Mary. What is the strange thing

happiness ? Sit down here : Tell me thine happiest hour.

Lady Clarence. I will, if that May make your Grace forget yourself a

little. There runs a shallow brook across our field For twenty miles, where the black crow

flies five, And doth so bound and babble all the way As if itself were happy. It was May-time, And I was walking with the man I loved. I loved him, but I thought I was not loved. And both were silent, letting the wild

brook Speak for us—till he stoop'd and gather'd

I took it, tho' I did not know I took it, And put it in my bosom, and all at once I felt his arms about me, and his lipsMary. O God! I have been too slack,

too slack; There are Hot Gospellers even among

our guards, Nobles we dared not touch. We have

but burnt The heretic priest, workmen, and women

and children. Wet, famine, ague, fever, storm, wreck,

wrath,We have so play'd the coward ; but by

God's grace, We'll follow Philip's leading, and set up The Holy Office here-garner the wheat, And burn the tares with unquenchable fire! Burn ! Fie, what a savour ! tell the cooks to close The doors of all the offices below. Latimer ! Sir, we are private with our women hereEver a rough, blunt, and uncourtly fel.

lowThou light a torch that never will go out ! Tis out-mine flames. Women, the

Holy Father Has ta'en the legateship from our cousin

PoleWas that well done? and poor Pole pines 1 of it, As I do, to the death. I am but a woman, I have no power.-—Ah, weak and meek

old man, Seven-fold dishonour'd even in the sight Of thine own sectaries—No, no. No

pardon ! Why that was false : there is the right

hand still Beckons me hence. Sir, you were burnt for heresy, not for

one From out a bed of thick forget-me-nots, Look'd hard and sweet at me, and gave

it me.

treason,

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