No; but these
libellous
papers which I found
Strewn in your palace.
Strewn in your palace.
Tennyson
I pray you be not so disconsolate;
I still will do mine utmost with the Pope.
Poor cousin!
Have not I been the fast friend of your life
Since mine began, and it was thought we two
Might make one flesh, and cleave unto each other
As man and wife?
POLE. Ah, cousin, I remember
How I would dandle you upon my knee
At lisping-age. I watch'd you dancing once
With your huge father; he look'd the Great Harry,
You but his cockboat; prettily you did it,
And innocently. No--we were not made
One flesh in happiness, no happiness here;
But now we are made one flesh in misery;
Our bridemaids are not lovely--Disappointment,
Ingratitude, Injustice, Evil-tongue,
Labour-in-vain.
MARY. Surely, not all in vain.
Peace, cousin, peace! I am sad at heart myself.
POLE. Our altar is a mound of dead men's clay,
Dug from the grave that yawns for us beyond;
And there is one Death stands behind the Groom,
And there is one Death stands behind the Bride--
MARY. Have you been looking at the 'Dance of Death'?
POLE.
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!
I still will do mine utmost with the Pope.
Poor cousin!
Have not I been the fast friend of your life
Since mine began, and it was thought we two
Might make one flesh, and cleave unto each other
As man and wife?
POLE. Ah, cousin, I remember
How I would dandle you upon my knee
At lisping-age. I watch'd you dancing once
With your huge father; he look'd the Great Harry,
You but his cockboat; prettily you did it,
And innocently. No--we were not made
One flesh in happiness, no happiness here;
But now we are made one flesh in misery;
Our bridemaids are not lovely--Disappointment,
Ingratitude, Injustice, Evil-tongue,
Labour-in-vain.
MARY. Surely, not all in vain.
Peace, cousin, peace! I am sad at heart myself.
POLE. Our altar is a mound of dead men's clay,
Dug from the grave that yawns for us beyond;
And there is one Death stands behind the Groom,
And there is one Death stands behind the Bride--
MARY. Have you been looking at the 'Dance of Death'?
POLE.
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!
