Your pardon,
Sweet cousin, and farewell!
Sweet cousin, and farewell!
Tennyson
No; but these libellous papers which I found
Strewn in your palace. Look you here--the Pope
Pointing at me with 'Pole, the heretic,
Thou hast burnt others, do thou burn thyself,
Or I will burn thee;' and this other; see! --
'We pray continually for the death
Of our accursed Queen and Cardinal Pole. '
This last--I dare not read it her. [_Aside_.
MARY. Away!
Why do you bring me these?
I thought you knew better. I never read,
I tear them; they come back upon my dreams.
The hands that write them should be burnt clean off
As Cranmer's, and the fiends that utter them
Tongue-torn with pincers, lash'd to death, or lie
Famishing in black cells, while famish'd rats
Eat them alive. Why do they bring me these?
Do you mean to drive me mad?
POLE. I had forgotten
How these poor libels trouble you.
Your pardon,
Sweet cousin, and farewell! 'O bubble world,
Whose colours in a moment break and fly! '
Why, who said that? I know not--true enough!
[_Puts up the papers, all but the last, which falls.
Exit_ POLE.
ALICE. If Cranmer's spirit were a mocking one,
And heard these two, there might be sport for him. [_Aside_.
MARY. Clarence, they hate me; even while I speak
There lurks a silent dagger, listening
In some dark closet, some long gallery, drawn,
And panting for my blood as I go by.
LADY CLARENCE. Nay, Madam, there be loyal papers too,
And I have often found them.
MARY. Find me one!
LADY CLARENCE.
Strewn in your palace. Look you here--the Pope
Pointing at me with 'Pole, the heretic,
Thou hast burnt others, do thou burn thyself,
Or I will burn thee;' and this other; see! --
'We pray continually for the death
Of our accursed Queen and Cardinal Pole. '
This last--I dare not read it her. [_Aside_.
MARY. Away!
Why do you bring me these?
I thought you knew better. I never read,
I tear them; they come back upon my dreams.
The hands that write them should be burnt clean off
As Cranmer's, and the fiends that utter them
Tongue-torn with pincers, lash'd to death, or lie
Famishing in black cells, while famish'd rats
Eat them alive. Why do they bring me these?
Do you mean to drive me mad?
POLE. I had forgotten
How these poor libels trouble you.
Your pardon,
Sweet cousin, and farewell! 'O bubble world,
Whose colours in a moment break and fly! '
Why, who said that? I know not--true enough!
[_Puts up the papers, all but the last, which falls.
Exit_ POLE.
ALICE. If Cranmer's spirit were a mocking one,
And heard these two, there might be sport for him. [_Aside_.
MARY. Clarence, they hate me; even while I speak
There lurks a silent dagger, listening
In some dark closet, some long gallery, drawn,
And panting for my blood as I go by.
LADY CLARENCE. Nay, Madam, there be loyal papers too,
And I have often found them.
MARY. Find me one!
LADY CLARENCE.
