SceneI

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Scene

I

The same. Gardens of the castle.

Enter Lodwick.

Lodwick

I might perceive his eye in her eye lost,

His ear to drink her sweet tongue’s utterance;

And changing passion, like inconstant clouds

That rack upon the carriage of the winds,

Increase and die in his disturbed cheeks.

Lo, when she blush’d, even then did he look pale,

As if her cheeks, by some enchanted power,

Attracted had the cherry blood from his:

Anon, with reverent fear when she grew pale,

His cheeks put on their scarlet ornaments,

But no more like her oriental red,

Than brick to coral or live things to dead.

Why did he then thus counterfeit her looks?

If she did blush, ’twas tender modest shame,

Being in the sacred presence of a king;

If he did blush, ’twas red immodest shame,

To vail his eyes amiss, being a king:

If she look’d pale, ’twas silly woman’s fear,

To bear herself in presence of a king;

If he look’d pale, it was with guilty fear,

To dote amiss, being a mighty king:

Then, Scottish wars, farewell! I fear, ’twill prove

A ling’ring English siege of peevish love.

Here comes his highness, walking all alone.

Enter King Edward.

King Edward

She is grown more fairer far since I came hither;

Her voice more silver every word than other,

Her wit more fluent: what a strange discourse

Unfolded she of David and his Scots!

“Even thus,” quoth she, “he spake,”⁠—and then spoke broad,

With epithites and accents of the Scot;

But somewhat better than the Scot could speak:

“And thus,” quoth she⁠—and answer’d then herself;

For who could speak like her? but she herself

Breathes from the wall an angel’s note from heaven

Of sweet defiance to her barbarous foes.

When she would talk of peace, methinks, her tongue

Commanded war to prison; when of war,

It waken’d Caesar from his Roman grave,

To hear war beautified by her discourse.

Wisdom is foolishness, but in her tongue,

Beauty a slander, but in her fair face:

There is no summer, but in her cheerful looks,

Nor frosty winter, but in her disdain.

I cannot blame the Scots that did besiege her,

For she is all the treasure of our land;

But call them cowards, that they ran away,

Having so rich and fair a cause to stay.⁠—

Art thou there, Lodwick? give me ink and paper.

Lodwick

I will, my sovereign.

King Edward

And bid the lords hold on their play at chess,

For we will walk and meditate alone.

Lodwick

I will, my liege. Exit.

King Edward

This fellow is well read in poetry

And hath a lusty and persuasive spirit:

I will acquaint him with my passion;

Which he shall shadow with a veil of lawn,

Through which the queen of beauty’s queens shall see

Herself the ground of my infirmity.⁠—

Reenter Lodwick.

hast thou pen, ink, and paper ready, Lodwick?

Lodwick

Ready, my liege.

King Edward

Then in the summer arbour sit by me,

Make it our council-house, or cabinet;

Since green our thoughts, green be the conventicle

Where we will ease us by disburd’ning them.

Now, Lodwick, invocate some golden muse

To bring thee hither an enchanted pen

That may, for sighs, set down true sighs indeed;

Talking of grief, to make thee ready groan;

And, when thou writ’st of tears, encouch the word,

Before and after, with such sweet laments,

That it may raise drops in a Tartar’s eye,

And make a flint-heart Scythian pitiful:

For so much moving hath a poet’s pen;

Then, if thou be a poet, move thou so,

And be enriched by thy sovereign’s love.

For, if the touch of sweet concordant strings

Could force attendance in the ears of hell;

How much more shall the strains of poets’ wit

Beguile and ravish soft and human minds?

Lodwick

To whom, my lord, shall I direct my style?

King Edward

To one that shames the fair and sots the wise;

Whose body is an abstract or a brief,

Contains each general virtue in the world.

Better than beautiful, thou must begin;

Devise for fair a fairer word than fair;

And every ornament, that thou wouldst praise,

Fly it a pitch above the soar of praise:

For flattery fear thou not to be convicted;

For, were thy admiration ten times more,

Ten times ten thousand more the worth exceeds,

Of that thou art to praise, thy praise’s worth.

Begin, I will to contemplate the while:

Forget not to set down, how passionate,

How heart-sick, and how full of languishment,

Her beauty makes me.

Lodwick

Write I to a woman?

King Edward

What beauty else could triumph over me;

Or who but women, do our love-lays greet?

What, think’st thou I did bid thee praise a horse?

Lodwick

Of what condition or estate she is,

’Twere requisite that I should know, my lord.

King Edward

Of such estate, that hers is as a throne,

And my estate the footstool where she treads:

Then may’st thou judge what her condition is,

By the proportion of her mightiness.

Write on, while I peruse her in my thoughts.

⋮

Her voice to music, or the nightingale:

To music every summer-leaping swain

Compares his sun-burnt lover when she speaks:

And why should I speak of the nightingale?

The nightingale sings of adulterate wrong;

And that, compar’d, is too satyrical:

For sin, though sin, would not be so esteem’d;

But, rather, virtue sin, sin virtue deem’d.

Her hair, far softer than the silkworm’s twist,

Like to a flattering glass, doth make more fair

The yellow amber: “like a flattering glass”

Comes in too soon; for, writing of her eyes,

I’ll say, that like a glass they catch the sun,

And thence the hot reflection doth rebound

Against the breast, and burns my heart within.

Ah, what a world of descant makes my soul

Upon this voluntary ground of love!⁠—

Come, Lodwick, hast thou turn’d thy ink to gold?

If not, write but in letters capital

My mistress’ name, and it will gild thy paper.

Read, Lodwick, read;

Fill thou the empty hollows of mine ears

With the sweet hearing of thy poetry.

Lodwick

I have not to a period brought her praise.

King Edward

Her praise is as my love, both infinite,

Which apprehend such violent extremes

That they disdain an ending period.

Her beauty hath no match but my affection;

Hers more than most, mine most, and more than more:

Hers more to praise than tell the sea by drops;

Nay, more, than drop the massy earth by sands,

And, sand by sand, print them in memory:

Then wherefore talk’st thou of a period,

To that which craves unended admiration?

Read, let us hear.

Lodwick

“More fair and chaste than is the queen of shades,”⁠—

King Edward

That line hath two faults, gross and palpable:

Compar’st thou her to the pale queen of night,

Who, being set in dark, seems therefore light?

What is she, when the sun lifts up his head,

But like a fading taper, dim and dead?

My love shall brave the eye of heaven at noon,

And, being unmask’d, outshine the golden sun.

Lodwick

What is the other fault, my sovereign lord?

King Edward

Read o’er the line again.

Lodwick

“More fair and chaste,”⁠—

King Edward

I did not bid thee talk of chastity,

To ransack so the treasure of her mind;

For I had rather have her chas’d, than chaste.

Out with the moon-line, I will none of it,

And let me have her liken’d to the sun:

Say, she hath thrice more splendour than the sun,

That her perfections emulate the sun,

That she breeds sweets as plenteous as the sun,

That she doth thaw cold winter like the sun,

That she doth cheer fresh summer like the sun,

That she doth dazzle gazers like the sun:

And, in this application to the sun,

Bid her be free and general as the sun;

Who smiles upon the basest weed that grows,

As lovingly as on the fragrant rose.

Let’s see what follows that same moon-light line.

Lodwick

“More fair and chaste than is the queen of shades;

More bold in constancy”⁠—

King Edward

In constancy! than who?

Lodwick

—“Than Judith was.”

King Edward

O monstrous line! Put in the next a sword,

And I shall woo her to cut of my head.

Blot, blot, good Lodwick! Let us hear the next.

Lodwick

There’s all that yet is done.

King Edward

I thank thee then, thou hast done little ill;

But what is done, is passing, passing ill;

No, let the captain talk of boist’rous war;

The prisoner, of immured dark constraint;

The sick man best sets down the pangs of death;

The man that starves, the sweetness of a feast;

The frozen soul, the benefit of fire;

And every grief, his happy opposite:

Love cannot sound well, but in lovers’ tongues;

Give me the pen and paper, I will write.⁠—

Enter Countess.

But soft, here comes the treasurer of my spirit.⁠—

Lodwick, thou know’st not how to draw a battle;

These wings, these flankers, and these squadrons

Argue in thee defective discipline:

Thou shouldest have plac’d this here, this other here.

Countess

Pardon my boldness, my thrice-gracious lord;

Let my intrusion here be call’d my duty,

That comes to see my sovereign how he fares.

King Edward

Go, draw the same, I tell thee in what form.

Lodwick

I go. Exit.

Countess

Sorry I am, to see my liege so sad:

What may thy subject do, to drive from thee

Thy gloomy consort, sullen melancholy?

King Edward

Ah, lady, I am blunt, and cannot straw

The flowers of solace in a ground of shame:

Since I came hither, countess, I am wrong’d.

Countess

Now, God forbid, that any in my house

Should think my sovereign wrong! Thrice-gentle king,

Acquaint me with your cause of discontent.

King Edward

How near then shall I be to remedy?

Countess

As near, my liege, as all my woman’s power

Can pawn itself to buy thy remedy.

King Edward

If thou speak’st true, then have I my redress:

Engage thy power to redeem my joys,

And I am joyful, countess; else, I die.

Countess

I will, my liege.

King Edward

Swear, countess, that thou wilt.

Countess

By Heaven, I will.

King Edward

Then take thyself a little way aside,

And tell thyself, a king doth dote on thee:

Say that within thy power it doth lie

To make him happy, and that thou hast sworn

To give him all the joy within thy power:

Do this; and tell me, when I shall be happy.

Countess

All this is done, my thrice-dread sovereign:

That power of love, that I have power to give,

Thou hast with all devout obedience;

Employ me how thou wilt in proof thereof.

King Edward

Thou hear’st me say, that I do dote on thee.

Countess

If on my beauty, take it if thou canst;

Though little, I do prize it ten times less:

If on my virtue, take it if thou canst;

For virtue’s store by giving doth augment:

Be it on what it will, that I can give

And thou canst take away, inherit it.

King Edward

It is thy beauty that I would enjoy.

Countess

O, were it painted, I would wipe it off

And dispossess myself, to give it thee.

But, sovereign, it is solder’d to my life;

Take one, and both; for, like an humble shadow,

It haunts the sunshine of my summer’s life.

King Edward

But thou may’st lend it me to sport withal.

Countess

As easy may my intellectual soul

Be lent away, and yet my body live,

As lend my body, palace to my soul,

Away from her, and yet retain my soul.

My body is her bower, her court, her abbey,

And she an angel, pure, divine, unspotted;

If I should leave her house, my lord, to thee,

I kill my poor soul, and my poor soul me.

King Edward

Didst thou not swear, to give me what I would?

Countess

I did, my liege; so, what you would, I could.

King Edward

I wish no more of thee than thou may’st give,

Nor beg I do not, but I rather buy;

That is, thy love; and, for that love of thine,

In rich exchange, I tender to thee mine.

Countess

But that your lips were sacred, my lord,

You would profane the holy name of love.

That love, you offer me, you cannot give,

For Caesar owes that tribute to his queen:

That love, you beg of me, I cannot give,

For Sara owes that duty to her lord.

He that doth clip or counterfeit your stamp

Shall die, my lord: and will your sacred self

Commit high treason against the King of Heaven,

To stamp his image in forbidden metal,

Forgetting your allegiance and your oath?

In violating marriage’ sacred law,

You break a greater honour than yourself:

To be a king, is of a younger house

Than to be married; your progenitor,

Sole-reigning Adam on the universe,

By God was honour’d for a married man,

But not by him anointed for a king.

It is a penalty to break your statutes,

Though not enacted with your highness’ hand:

How much more, to infringe the holy act

Made by the mouth of God, seal’d with his hand?

I know, my sovereign⁠—in my husband’s love,

Who now doth loyal service in his wars⁠—

Doth but so try the wife of Salisbury,

Whether she will hear a wanton’s tale, or no;

Lest being therein guilty by my stay,

From that, not from my liege, I turn away. Exit.

King Edward

Whether is her beauty by her words divine,

Or are her words sweet chaplains to her beauty?

Like as the wind doth beautify a sail,

And as a sail becomes the unseen wind,

So do her words her beauty, beauty words.

O, that I were a honey-gathering bee,

To bear the comb of virtue from this flower;

And not a poison-sucking envious spider,

To turn the juice I take to deadly venom!

Religion is austere, and beauty gentle;

Too strict a guardian for so fair a ward.

O, that she were, as is the air, to me!

Why, so she is; for, when I would embrace her,

This do I, and catch nothing but myself.

I must enjoy her; for I cannot beat,

With reason and reproof, fond love away.

Enter Warwick.

Here comes her father: I will work with him,

To bear my colours in this field of love.

Warwick

How is it, that my sovereign is so sad?

May I with pardon know your highness’ grief,

And that my old endeavour will remove it,

It shall not cumber long your majesty.

King Edward

A kind and voluntary gift thou proffer’st,

That I was forward to have begg’d of thee.

But, O thou world, great nurse of flattery,

Why dost thou tip men’s tongues with golden words

And peise their deeds with weight of heavy lead,

That fair performance cannot follow promise?

O, that a man might hold the heart’s close book,

And choke the lavish tongue when it doth utter

The breath of falsehood not character’d there!

Warwick

Far be it from the honour of my age

That I should owe bright gold and render lead!

Age is a cynic, not a flatterer:

I say again, that, if I knew your grief,

And that by me it may be lessened,

My proper harm should buy your highness’ good.

King Edward

These are the vulgar tenders of false men,

That never pay the duty of their words.

Thou wilt not stick to swear what thou hast said;

But, when thou know’st my grief’s condition,

This rash-disgorged vomit of thy word

Thou wilt eat up again, and leave me helpless.

Warwick

By Heaven, I will not, though your majesty

Did bid me run upon your sword and die.

King Edward

Say, that my grief is no way med’cinable,

But by the loss and bruising of thine honour?

Warwick

If nothing but that loss may vantage you,

I would account that loss my vantage too.

King Edward

Think’st that thou canst unswear thy oath again?

Warwick

I cannot; nor I would not, if I could.

King Edward

But, if thou dost, what shall I say to thee?

Warwick

What may be said to any perjur’d villain

That breaks the sacred warrant of an oath.

King Edward

What wilt thou say to one that breaks an oath?

Warwick

That he hath broke his faith with God and man

And from them both stands excommunicate.

King Edward

What office were it to suggest a man

To break a lawful and religious vow?

Warwick

An office for the devil, not for man.

King Edward

That devil’s office must thou do for me;

Or break thy oath or cancel all the bonds

Of love and duty ’twixt thyself and me.

And therefore, Warwick, if thou art thyself,

The lord and master of thy word and oath,

Go to thy daughter, and in my behalf

Command her, woo her, win her any ways,

To be my mistress and my secret love.

I will not stand to hear thee make reply;

Thy oath break hers, or let thy sovereign die. Exit.

Warwick

O doting king! O detestable office!

Well may I tempt myself to wrong myself,

When he hath sworn me by the name of God

To break a vow made by the name of God.

What if I swear by this right hand of mine

To cut this right hand off? the better way

Were to profane the idol than confound it:

But neither will I do; I’ll keep mine oath

And to my daughter make a recantation

Of all the virtue I have preach’d to her.

I’ll say, she must forget her husband Salisbury,

If she remember to embrace the king;

I’ll say, an oath may easily be broken,

But not so easily pardon’d, being broken;

I’ll say, it is true charity to love,

But not true love to be so charitable;

I’ll say, his greatness may bear out the shame,

But not his kingdom can buy out the sin;

I’ll say, it is my duty to persuade,

But not her honesty to give consent.

Enter Countess.

See, where she comes: was never father, had

Against his child an embassage so bad.

Countess

My lord and father, I have sought for you:

My mother and the peers importune you

To keep in presence of his majesty

And do your best to make his highness merry.

Warwick

How shall I enter in this arrant errand?

I must not call her child; for where’s the father

That will, in such a suit, seduce his child?

Then, Wife of Salisbury⁠—shall I so begin?

No, he’s my friend; and where is found the friend,

That will do friendship such indammagement?⁠—

To the Countess. Neither my daughter, nor my dear friend’s wife,

I am not Warwick, as thou think’st I am,

But an attorney from the court of hell;

That thus have hous’d my spirit in his form,

To do a message to thee from the king.

The mighty King of England dotes on thee:

He that hath power to take away thy life

Hath power to take thine honour; then consent

To pawn thine honour, rather than thy life:

Honour is often lost and got again;

But life, once gone, hath no recovery.

The sun, that withers hay, doth nourish grass;

The king that would distain thee will advance thee.

The poets write that great Achilles’ spear

Could heal the wound it made: the moral is,

What mighty men misdo, they can amend.

The lion doth become his bloody jaws

And grace his foragement, by being mild

When vassel fear lies trembling at his feet.

The king will in his glory hide thy shame;

And those that gaze on him to find out thee

Will lose their eyesight, looking in the sun.

What can one drop of poison harm the sea,

Whose hugy vastures can digest the ill

And make it lose his operation?

The king’s great name will temper thy misdeeds,

And give the bitter potion of reproach

A sugar’d-sweet and most delicious taste:

Besides, it is no harm, to do the thing

Which without shame could not be left undone.

Thus have I, in his majesty’s behalf,

Apparell’d sin in virtuous sentences,

And dwell upon thy answer in his suit.

Countess

Unnatural besiege! Woe me unhappy,

To have escap’d the danger of my foes

And to be ten times worse envir’d by friends!

Hath he no means to stain my honest blood,

But to corrupt the author of my blood

To be his scandalous and vile solicitor?

No marvel, though the branches be then infected,

When poison hath encompassed the root:

No marvel, though the leprous infant die,

When the stern dam envenometh the dug.

Why then, give sin a passport to offend,

And youth the dangerous rein of liberty:

Blot out the strict forbidding of the law;

And cancel every canon, that prescribes

A shame for shame or penance for offence.

No, let me die, if his too boist’rous will

Will have it so, before I will consent

To be an actor in his graceless lust.

Warwick

Why, now thou speak’st as I would have thee speak:

And mark how I unsay my words again.

An honourable grave is more esteem’d,

Than the polluted closet of a king:

The greater man, the greater is the thing,

Be it good or bad, that he shall undertake:

An unreputed mote, flying in the sun,

Presents a greater substance than it is:

The freshest summer’s day doth soonest taint

The loathed carrion that it seems to kiss:

Deep are the blows made with a mighty axe:

That sin doth ten times aggravate itself,

That is committed in a holy place:

An evil deed, done by authority,

Is sin and subornation: deck an ape

In tissue, and the beauty of the robe

Adds but the greater scorn unto the beast.

A spacious field of reasons could I urge

Between his glory, daughter, and thy shame:

That poison shows worst in a golden cup;

Dark night seems darker by the lightning-flash;

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds;

And every glory that inclines to sin,

The shame is treble by the opposite.

So leave I, with my blessing in thy bosom;

Which then convert to a most heavy curse,

When thou convert’st from honour’s golden name

To the black faction of bed-blotting shame! Exit.

Countess

I’ll follow thee; and when my mind turns so,

My body sink my soul in endless woe! Exit.