Enter_
ELIZABETH
_and_ SIR WILLIAM CECIL.
Tennyson
Elizabeth?
revolt?
A new Northumberland, another Wyatt?
I'll fight it on the threshold of the grave.
LADY CLARENCE. Madam, your royal sister comes to see you.
MARY. I will not see her.
Who knows if Boleyn's daughter be my sister?
I will see none except the priest. Your arm.
[_To_ LADY CLARENCE.
O Saint of Aragon, with that sweet worn smile
Among thy patient wrinkles--Help me hence.
[_Exeunt_.
_The_ PRIEST _passes.
Enter_ ELIZABETH _and_ SIR WILLIAM CECIL.
ELIZABETH. Good counsel yours--
No one in waiting? still,
As if the chamberlain were Death himself!
The room she sleeps in--is not this the way?
No, that way there are voices. Am I too late?
Cecil . . . God guide me lest I lose the way.
[_Exit_ ELIZABETH.
CECIL. Many points weather'd, many perilous ones,
At last a harbour opens; but therein
Sunk rocks--they need fine steering--much it is
To be nor mad, nor bigot--have a mind--
Nor let Priests' talk, or dream of worlds to be,
Miscolour things about her--sudden touches
For him, or him--sunk rocks; no passionate faith--
But--if let be--balance and compromise;
Brave, wary, sane to the heart of her--a Tudor
School'd by the shadow of death--a Boleyn, too,
Glancing across the Tudor--not so well.
_Enter_ ALICE.
How is the good Queen now?
A new Northumberland, another Wyatt?
I'll fight it on the threshold of the grave.
LADY CLARENCE. Madam, your royal sister comes to see you.
MARY. I will not see her.
Who knows if Boleyn's daughter be my sister?
I will see none except the priest. Your arm.
[_To_ LADY CLARENCE.
O Saint of Aragon, with that sweet worn smile
Among thy patient wrinkles--Help me hence.
[_Exeunt_.
_The_ PRIEST _passes.
Enter_ ELIZABETH _and_ SIR WILLIAM CECIL.
ELIZABETH. Good counsel yours--
No one in waiting? still,
As if the chamberlain were Death himself!
The room she sleeps in--is not this the way?
No, that way there are voices. Am I too late?
Cecil . . . God guide me lest I lose the way.
[_Exit_ ELIZABETH.
CECIL. Many points weather'd, many perilous ones,
At last a harbour opens; but therein
Sunk rocks--they need fine steering--much it is
To be nor mad, nor bigot--have a mind--
Nor let Priests' talk, or dream of worlds to be,
Miscolour things about her--sudden touches
For him, or him--sunk rocks; no passionate faith--
But--if let be--balance and compromise;
Brave, wary, sane to the heart of her--a Tudor
School'd by the shadow of death--a Boleyn, too,
Glancing across the Tudor--not so well.
_Enter_ ALICE.
How is the good Queen now?
