Madam,
The Council?
The Council?
Tennyson
Then, pretty maiden, you should know that whether
A wind be warm or cold, it serves to fan
A kindled fire.
ALICE. According to the song.
His friends would praise him, I believed 'em,
His foes would blame him, and I scorn'd 'em,
His friends--as Angels I received 'em,
His foes--the Devil had suborn'd 'em.
RENARD. Peace, pretty maiden.
I hear them stirring in the Council Chamber.
Lord Paget's 'Ay' is sure--who else? and yet,
They are all too much at odds to close at once
In one full-throated No! Her Highness comes.
_Enter_ MARY.
ALICE. How deathly pale! --a chair, your Highness
[_Bringing one to the_ QUEEN.
RENARD.
Madam,
The Council?
MARY. Ay! My Philip is all mine.
[_Sinks into chair, half fainting_.
ACT II
SCENE I. --ALINGTON CASTLE.
SIR THOMAS WYATT. I do not hear from Carew or the Duke
Of Suffolk, and till then I should not move.
The Duke hath gone to Leicester; Carew stirs
In Devon: that fine porcelain Courtenay,
Save that he fears he might be crack'd in using,
(I have known a semi-madman in my time
So fancy-ridd'n) should be in Devon too.
_Enter_ WILLIAM.
News abroad, William?
WILLIAM. None so new, Sir Thomas, and none so old, Sir Thomas. No new
news that Philip comes to wed Mary, no old news that all men hate it.
Old Sir Thomas would have hated it.
A wind be warm or cold, it serves to fan
A kindled fire.
ALICE. According to the song.
His friends would praise him, I believed 'em,
His foes would blame him, and I scorn'd 'em,
His friends--as Angels I received 'em,
His foes--the Devil had suborn'd 'em.
RENARD. Peace, pretty maiden.
I hear them stirring in the Council Chamber.
Lord Paget's 'Ay' is sure--who else? and yet,
They are all too much at odds to close at once
In one full-throated No! Her Highness comes.
_Enter_ MARY.
ALICE. How deathly pale! --a chair, your Highness
[_Bringing one to the_ QUEEN.
RENARD.
Madam,
The Council?
MARY. Ay! My Philip is all mine.
[_Sinks into chair, half fainting_.
ACT II
SCENE I. --ALINGTON CASTLE.
SIR THOMAS WYATT. I do not hear from Carew or the Duke
Of Suffolk, and till then I should not move.
The Duke hath gone to Leicester; Carew stirs
In Devon: that fine porcelain Courtenay,
Save that he fears he might be crack'd in using,
(I have known a semi-madman in my time
So fancy-ridd'n) should be in Devon too.
_Enter_ WILLIAM.
News abroad, William?
WILLIAM. None so new, Sir Thomas, and none so old, Sir Thomas. No new
news that Philip comes to wed Mary, no old news that all men hate it.
Old Sir Thomas would have hated it.
