BALLARD.

Sir, at none

Is folly welcome to mine ears or eyes.

Nay, stare not on me stormily; I say,

I bid at no hand welcome, by no name,

Be it ne'er so wise or valiant on men's lips,

Pledge health to folly, nor forecast good hope

For them that serve her, I, but take of men

Things ill done ill at any hand alike.

Ye shall not say I cheered you to your death,

Nor would, though nought more dangerous than your death

Or deadlier for our cause and God's in ours

Were here to stand the chance of, and your blood

Shed vainly with no seed for faith to sow

Should be not poison for men's hopes to drink.

What is this picture? Have ye sense or souls,

Eyes, ears, or wits to take assurance in

Of how ye stand in strange men's eyes and ears,

How fare upon their talking tongues, how dwell

In shot of their suspicion, and sustain

How great a work how lightly? Think ye not

These men have ears and eyes about your ways,

Walk with your feet, work with your hands, and watch

When ye sleep sound and babble in your sleep?

What knave was he, or whose man sworn and spy,

That drank with you last night? whose hireling lip

Was this that pledged you, Master Babington,

To a foul quean's downfall and a fair queen's rise?

Can ye not seal your tongues from tavern speech,

Nor sup abroad but air may catch it back,

Nor think who set that watch upon your lips

Yourselves can keep not on them?

BABINGTON.

What, my friends!

Here is one come to counsel, God be thanked,

That bears commission to rebuke us all.

Why, hark you, sir, you that speak judgment, you

That take our doom upon your double tongue

To sentence and accuse us with one breath,

Our doomsman and our justicer for sin,

Good Captain Ballard, Father Fortescue,

Who made you guardian of us poor men, gave

Your wisdom wardship of our follies, chose

Your faith for keeper of our faiths, that yet

Were never taxed of change or doubted? You,

'Tis you that have an eye to us, and take note

What time we keep, what place, what company,

How far may wisdom trust us to be wise

Or faith esteem us faithful, and yourself

Were once the hireling hand and tongue and eye

That waited on this very Walsingham

To spy men's counsels and betray their blood

Whose trust had sealed you trusty? By God's light,

A goodly guard I have of you, to crave

What man was he I drank with yesternight,

What name, what shape, what habit, as, forsooth,

Were I some statesman's knave and spotted spy,

The man I served, and cared not how, being dead,

His molten gold should glut my throat in hell,

Might question of me whom I snared last night,

Make inquisition of his face, his gait,

His speech, his likeness. Well, be answered then

By God, I know not; but God knows I think

The spy most dangerous on my secret walks

And witness of my ways most worth my fear

And deadliest listener to devour my speech

Now questions me of danger, and the tongue

Most like to sting my trust and life to death

Now taxes mine of rashness.

BALLARD.

Is he mad?

Or are ye brainsick all with heat of wine

That stand and hear him rage like men in storms

Made drunk with danger? have ye sworn with him

To die the fool's death too of furious fear

And passion scared to slaughter of itself?

Is there none here that knows his cause or me,

Nor what should save or spoil us?

TICHBORNE.

Friend, give ear;

For God's sake, yet be counselled.

BABINGTON.

Ay, for God's!

What part hath God in this man's counsels? nay,

Take you part with him; nay, in God's name go;

What should you do to bide with me? turn back;

There stands your captain.

SAVAGE.

Hath not one man here

One spark in spirit or sprinkling left of shame?

I that looked once for no such fellowship,

But soldier's hearts in shapes of gentlemen,

I am sick with shame to hear men's jangling tongues

Outnoise their swords unbloodied. Hear me, sirs;

My hand keeps time before my tongue, and hath

But wit to speak in iron; yet as now

Such wit were sharp enough to serve our turn

That keenest tongues may serve not. One thing sworn

Calls on our hearts; the queen must singly die,

Or we, half dead men now with dallying, must

Die several deaths for her brief one, and stretched

Beyond the scope of sufferance; wherefore here

Choose out the man to put this peril on

And gird him with this glory; let him pass

Straight hence to court, and through all stays of state

Strike death into her heart.

BABINGTON.

Why, this rings right;

Well said, and soldierlike; do thus, and take

The vanguard of us all for honour.

SAVAGE.

Ay,

Well would I go, but seeing no courtly suit

Like yours, her servants and her pensioners,

The doorkeepers will bid my baseness back

From passage to her presence.

BABINGTON.

O, for that,

Take this and buy; nay, start not from your word;

You shall not.

SAVAGE.

Sir, I shall not.

BABINGTON.

Here's more gold;

Make haste, and God go with you; if the plot

Be blown on once of men's suspicious breath,

We are dead, and all die bootless deaths – be swift –

And her we have served we shall but surely slay.

I will make trial again of Walsingham

If he misdoubt us. O, my cloak and sword –

 

Knocking within.

 

I will go forth myself. What noise is that?

Get you to Gage's lodging; stay not here;

Make speed without for Westminster; perchance

There may we safely shift our shapes and fly,

If the end be come upon us.

BALLARD.

It is here.

Death knocks at door already. Fly; farewell.

BABINGTON.

I would not leave you – but they know you not –

You need not fear, being found here singly.

BALLARD.

No.

BABINGTON.

Nay, halt not, sirs; no word but haste; this way,

Ere they break down the doors. God speed us well!

 

Exeunt all but Ballard. As they go out enter an Officer with Soldiers.

 

OFFICER.

Here's one fox yet by the foot; lay hold on him.

BALLARD.

What would you, sirs?

OFFICER.

Why, make one foul bird fast,

Though the full flight be scattered: for their kind

Must prey not here again, nor here put on

The jay's loose feathers for the raven priest's

To mock the blear-eyed marksman: these plucked off

Shall show the nest that sent this fledgeling forth,

Hatched in the hottest holy nook of hell.

BALLARD.

I am a soldier.

OFFICER.

Ay, the badge we know

Whose broidery signs the shoulders of the file

That Satan marks for Jesus. Bind him fast:

Blue satin and slashed velvet and gold lace,

Methinks we have you, and the hat's band here

So seemly set with silver buttons, all

As here was down in order; by my faith,

A goodly ghostly friend to shrive a maid

As ever kissed for penance: pity 'tis

The hangman's hands must hallow him again

When this lay slough slips off, and twist one rope

For priest to swing with soldier. Bring him hence.

 

Exeunt.

 

 

Scene II. Chartley

Mary Stuart and Mary Beaton.

 

MARY STUART.

We shall not need keep house for fear to-day;

The skies are fair and hot; the wind sits well

For hound and horn to chime with. I will go.

MARY BEATON.

How far from this to Tixall?

MARY STUART.

Nine or ten

Or what miles more I care not; we shall find

Fair field and goodly quarry, or he lies,

The gospeller that bade us to the sport,

Protesting yesternight the shire had none

To shame Sir Walter Aston's. God be praised,

I take such pleasure yet to back my steed

And bear my crossbow for a deer's death well,

I am almost half content – and yet I lie –

To ride no harder nor more dangerous heat

And hunt no beast of game less gallant.

MARY BEATON.

Nay,

You grew long since more patient.

MARY STUART.

Ah, God help!

What should I do but learn the word of him

These years and years, the last word learnt but one,

That ever I loved least of all sad words?

The last is death for any soul to learn,

The last save death is patience.

MARY BEATON.

Time enough

We have had ere death of life to learn it in

Since you rode last on wilder ways than theirs

That drive the dun deer to his death.

MARY STUART.

Eighteen –

How many more years yet shall God mete out

For thee and me to wait upon their will

And hope or hope not, watch or sleep, and dream

Awake or sleeping? surely fewer, I think,

Than half these years that all have less of life

Than one of those more fleet that flew before.

I am yet some ten years younger than this queen,

Some nine or ten; but if I die this year

And she some score years longer than I think

Be royal-titled, in one year of mine

I shall have lived the longer life, and die

The fuller-fortuned woman. Dost thou mind

The letter that I writ nigh two years gone

To let her wit what privacies of hers

Our trusty dame of Shrewsbury's tongue made mine

Ere it took fire to sting her lord and me?

How thick soe'er o'erscurfed with poisonous lies,

Of her I am sure it lied not; and perchance

I did the wiselier, having writ my fill,

Yet to withhold the letter when she sought

Of me to know what villainies had it poured

In ears of mine against her innocent name:

And yet thou knowest what mirthful heart was mine

To write her word of these, that had she read

Had surely, being but woman, made her mad,

Or haply, being not woman, had not.