Sir, we are private with our women here--
Ever a rough, blunt, and uncourtly fellow--
Thou light a torch that never will go out!
Ever a rough, blunt, and uncourtly fellow--
Thou light a torch that never will go out!
Tennyson
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 one
From out a bed of thick forget-me-nots,
Look'd hard and sweet at me, and gave it me.
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 lips--
MARY. 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 here--
Ever a rough, blunt, and uncourtly fellow--
Thou light a torch that never will go out!
'Tis out--mine flames. Women, the Holy Father
Has ta'en the legateship from our cousin Pole--
Was that well done? and poor Pole pines 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 treason,
Remember that! 'twas I and Bonner did it,
And Pole; we are three to one--Have you found mercy there,
Grant it me here: and see, he smiles and goes,
Gentle as in life.
ALICE. Madam, who goes? King Philip?
MARY. No, Philip comes and goes, but never goes.
Women, when I am dead,
Open my heart, and there you will find written
Two names, Philip and Calais; open his,--
So that he have one,--
You will find Philip only, policy, policy,--
Ay, worse than that--not one hour true to me!