No More Learning

RENARD. Yet I know the Prince,
So your king-parliament suffer him to land,
Yearns to set foot upon your island shore.

MARY. God change the pebble which his kingly foot
First presses into some more costly stone
Than ever blinded eye. I'll have one mark it
And bring it me. I'll have it burnish'd firelike;
I'll set it round with gold, with pearl, with diamond.
Let the great angel of the church come with him;
Stand on the deck and spread his wings for sail!
God lay the waves and strow the storms at sea,
And here at land among the people! O Renard,
I am much beset, I am almost in despair.
Paget is ours. Gardiner perchance is ours;
But for our heretic Parliament--

RENARD. O Madam,
You fly your thoughts like kites. My master, Charles,
Bad you go softly with your heretics here,
Until your throne had ceased to tremble. Then
Spit them like larks for aught I care. Besides,
When Henry broke the carcase of your church
To pieces, there were many wolves among you
Who dragg'd the scatter'd limbs into their den.
The Pope would have you make them render these;
So would your cousin, Cardinal Pole; ill counsel!
These let them keep at present; stir not yet
This matter of the Church lands. At his coming
Your star will rise.

MARY. My star! a baleful one.
I see but the black night, and hear the wolf.
What star?

RENARD. Your star will be your princely son,
Heir of this England and the Netherlands!
And if your wolf the while should howl for more,
We'll dust him from a bag of Spanish gold.
I do believe, I have dusted some already,
That, soon or late, your Parliament is ours.

MARY. Why do they talk so foully of your Prince,
Renard?

RENARD. The lot of Princes. To sit high
Is to be lied about.

MARY. They call him cold,
Haughty, ay, worse.

RENARD. Why, doubtless, Philip shows
Some of the bearing of your blue blood--still
All within measure--nay, it well becomes him.

MARY. Hath he the large ability of his father?

RENARD. Nay, some believe that he will go beyond him.

MARY. Is this like him?

RENARD. Ay, somewhat; but your Philip
Is the most princelike Prince beneath the sun.
This is a daub to Philip.

MARY. Of a pure life?

RENARD. As an angel among angels. Yea, by Heaven,
The text--Your Highness knows it, 'Whosoever
Looketh after a woman,' would not graze
The Prince of Spain. You are happy in him there,
Chaste as your Grace!

MARY. I am happy in him there.

RENARD. And would be altogether happy, Madam,
So that your sister were but look'd to closer.
You have sent her from the court, but then she goes,
I warrant, not to hear the nightingales,
But hatch you some new treason in the woods.

MARY. We have our spies abroad to catch her tripping,
And then if caught, to the Tower.

RENARD. The Tower! the block!
The word has turn'd your Highness pale; the thing
Was no such scarecrow in your father's time.
I have heard, the tongue yet quiver'd with the jest
When the head leapt--so common! I do think
To save your crown that it must come to this.

MARY. No, Renard; it must never come to this.

RENARD. Not yet; but your old Traitors of the Tower--
Why, when you put Northumberland to death,
The sentence having past upon them all,
Spared you the Duke of Suffolk, Guildford Dudley,
Ev'n that young girl who dared to wear your crown?

MARY. Dared? nay, not so; the child obey'd her father.
Spite of her tears her father forced it on her.

RENARD. Good Madam, when the Roman wish'd to reign,
He slew not him alone who wore the purple,
But his assessor in the throne, perchance
A child more innocent than Lady Jane.

MARY. I am English Queen, not Roman Emperor.

RENARD. Yet too much mercy is a want of mercy,
And wastes more life. Stamp out the fire, or this
Will smoulder and re-flame, and burn the throne
Where you should sit with Philip: he will not come
Till she be gone.

MARY. Indeed, if that were true--
For Philip comes, one hand in mine, and one
Steadying the tremulous pillars of the Church--
But no, no, no. Farewell. I am somewhat faint
With our long talk. Tho' Queen, I am not Queen
Of mine own heart, which every now and then
Beats me half dead: yet stay, this golden chain--
My father on a birthday gave it me,
And I have broken with my father--take
And wear it as memorial of a morning
Which found me full of foolish doubts, and leaves me
As hopeful.

RENARD (_aside_). Whew--the folly of all follies
Is to be love-sick for a shadow. (_Aloud_) Madam,
This chains me to your service, not with gold,
But dearest links of love. Farewell, and trust me,
Philip is yours.
[_Exit_.

MARY. Mine--but not yet all mine.

_Enter_ USHER.

USHER. Your Council is in Session, please your Majesty.

MARY. Sir, let them sit. I must have time to breathe.
No, say I come. (_Exit_ USHER. ) I won by boldness once.
The Emperor counsell'd me to fly to Flanders.
I would not; but a hundred miles I rode,
Sent out my letters, call'd my friends together,
Struck home and won.
And when the Council would not crown me--thought
To bind me first by oaths I could not keep,
And keep with Christ and conscience--was it boldness
Or weakness that won there? when I, their Queen,
Cast myself down upon my knees before them,
And those hard men brake into woman tears,
Ev'n Gardiner, all amazed, and in that passion
Gave me my Crown.

_Enter_ ALICE.

Girl; hast thou ever heard
Slanders against Prince Philip in our Court?

ALICE. What slanders? I, your Grace; no, never.

MARY. Nothing?

ALICE. Never, your Grace.

MARY. See that you neither hear them nor repeat!

ALICE (_aside_).
Good Lord! but I have heard a thousand such.
Ay, and repeated them as often--mum!
Why comes that old fox-Fleming back again?

_Enter_ RENARD.

RENARD. Madam, I scarce had left your Grace's presence
Before I chanced upon the messenger
Who brings that letter which we waited for--
The formal offer of Prince Philip's hand.
It craves an instant answer, Ay or No.

MARY. An instant Ay or No! the Council sits.
Give it me quick.

ALICE (_stepping before her_).
Your Highness is all trembling.

MARY. Make way. [_Exit into the Council Chamber_.

ALICE. O, Master Renard, Master Renard,
If you have falsely painted your fine Prince;
Praised, where you should have blamed him, I pray God
No woman ever love you, Master Renard.
It breaks my heart to hear her moan at night
As tho' the nightmare never left her bed.

RENARD. My pretty maiden, tell me, did you ever
Sigh for a beard?

ALICE. That's not a pretty question.

RENARD. Not prettily put? I mean, my pretty maiden,
A pretty man for such a pretty maiden.

ALICE. My Lord of Devon is a pretty man.
I hate him. Well, but if I have, what then?

RENARD. 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. The bells are ringing at
Maidstone. Doesn't your worship hear?

WYATT. Ay, for the Saints are come to reign again.
Most like it is a Saint's-day. There's no call
As yet for me; so in this pause, before
The mine be fired, it were a pious work
To string my father's sonnets, left about
Like loosely-scatter'd jewels, in fair order,
And head them with a lamer rhyme of mine,
To grace his memory.

WILLIAM. Ay, why not, Sir Thomas? He was a fine courtier, he; Queen
Anne loved him. All the women loved him. I loved him, I was in Spain
with him. I couldn't eat in Spain, I couldn't sleep in Spain. I hate
Spain, Sir Thomas.

WYATT. But thou could'st drink in Spain if I remember.

WILLIAM. Sir Thomas, we may grant the wine. Old Sir Thomas always
granted the wine.

WYATT. Hand me the casket with my father's sonnets.

WILLIAM.
Ay--sonnets--a fine courtier of the old Court, old Sir
Thomas. [_Exit_.

WYATT. Courtier of many courts, he loved the more
His own gray towers, plain life and letter'd peace,
To read and rhyme in solitary fields,
The lark above, the nightingale below,
And answer them in song. The sire begets
Not half his likeness in the son. I fail
Where he was fullest: yet--to write it down.
[_He writes_.

_Re-enter_ WILLIAM.

WILLIAM. There _is_ news, there _is_ news, and no call for
sonnet-sorting now, nor for sonnet-making either, but ten thousand
men on Penenden Heath all calling after your worship, and your
worship's name heard into Maidstone market, and your worship the first
man in Kent and Christendom, for the Queen's down, and the world's up,
and your worship a-top of it.

WYATT. Inverted Aesop--mountain out of mouse.
Say for ten thousand ten--and pothouse knaves,
Brain-dizzied with a draught of morning ale.

_Enter_ ANTONY KNYVETT.

WILLIAM. Here's Antony Knyvett.

KNYVETT. Look you, Master Wyatt,
Tear up that woman's work there.

WYATT. No; not these,
Dumb children of my father, that will speak
When I and thou and all rebellions lie
Dead bodies without voice. Song flies you know
For ages.

KNYVETT. Tut, your sonnet's a flying ant,
Wing'd for a moment.

WYATT. Well, for mine own work,
[_Tearing the paper_.
It lies there in six pieces at your feet;
For all that I can carry it in my head.

KNYVETT. If you can carry your head upon your shoulders.

WYATT. I fear you come to carry it off my shoulders,
And sonnet-making's safer.

KNYVETT. Why, good Lord,
Write you as many sonnets as you will.
Ay, but not now; what, have you eyes, ears, brains?
This Philip and the black-faced swarms of Spain,
The hardest, cruellest people in the world,
Come locusting upon us, eat us up,
Confiscate lands, goods, money--Wyatt, Wyatt,
Wake, or the stout old island will become
A rotten limb of Spain. They roar for you
On Penenden Heath, a thousand of them--more--
All arm'd, waiting a leader; there's no glory
Like his who saves his country: and you sit
Sing-songing here; but, if I'm any judge,
By God, you are as poor a poet, Wyatt,
As a good soldier.

WYATT. You as poor a critic
As an honest friend: you stroke me on one cheek,
Buffet the other. Come, you bluster, Antony!
You know I know all this. I must not move
Until I hear from Carew and the Duke.
I fear the mine is fired before the time.

KNYVETT (_showing a paper_).
But here's some Hebrew. Faith, I half forgot it.
Look; can you make it English? A strange youth
Suddenly thrust it on me, whisper'd, 'Wyatt,'
And whisking round a corner, show'd his back
Before I read his face.

WYATT. Ha! Courtenay's cipher. [_Reads_.
'Sir Peter Carew fled to France: it is thought the Duke will be taken.
I am with you still; but, for appearance sake, stay with the Queen.
Gardiner knows, but the Council are all at odds, and the Queen hath no
force for resistance. Move, if you move, at once. '

Is Peter Carew fled? Is the Duke taken?
Down scabbard, and out sword! and let Rebellion
Roar till throne rock, and crown fall. No; not that;
But we will teach Queen Mary how to reign.
Who are those that shout below there?

KNYVETT. Why, some fifty
That follow'd me from Penenden Heath in hope
To hear you speak.

WYATT. Open the window, Knyvett;
The mine is fired, and I will speak to them.

Men of Kent; England of England; you that have kept your old customs
upright, while all the rest of England bow'd theirs to the Norman, the
cause that hath brought us together is not the cause of a county or a
shire, but of this England, in whose crown our Kent is the fairest
jewel. Philip shall not wed Mary; and ye have called me to be your
leader. I know Spain. I have been there with my father; I have seen
them in their own land; have marked the haughtiness of their nobles;
the cruelty of their priests. If this man marry our Queen, however
the Council and the Commons may fence round his power with restriction,
he will be King, King of England, my masters; and the Queen, and the
laws, and the people, his slaves. What? shall we have Spain on the
throne and in the parliament; Spain in the pulpit and on the law-bench;
Spain in all the great offices of state; Spain in our ships, in our
forts, in our houses, in our beds?

CROWD. No! no! no Spain!

WILLIAM. No Spain in our beds--that were worse than all. I have been
there with old Sir Thomas, and the beds I know. I hate Spain.

A PEASANT. But, Sir Thomas, must we levy war against the Queen's
Grace?

WYATT. No, my friend; war _for_ the Queen's Grace--to save her from
herself and Philip--war against Spain. And think not we shall be
alone--thousands will flock to us. The Council, the Court itself, is
on our side. The Lord Chancellor himself is on our side. The King of
France is with us; the King of Denmark is with us; the world is with
us--war against Spain! And if we move not now, yet it will be known
that we have moved; and if Philip come to be King, O, my God! the
rope, the rack, the thumbscrew, the stake, the fire. If we move not
now, Spain moves, bribes our nobles with her gold, and creeps, creeps
snake-like about our legs till we cannot move at all; and ye know, my
masters, that wherever Spain hath ruled she hath wither'd all beneath
her. Look at the New World--a paradise made hell; the red man, that
good helpless creature, starved, maim'd, flogg'd, flay'd, burn'd,
boil'd, buried alive, worried by dogs; and here, nearer home, the
Netherlands, Sicily, Naples, Lombardy. I say no more--only this, their
lot is yours. Forward to London with me! forward to London! If ye love
your liberties or your skins, forward to London!

CROWD. Forward to London! A Wyatt! a Wyatt!

WYATT. But first to Rochester, to take the guns
From out the vessels lying in the river.
Then on.

A PEASANT. Ay, but I fear we be too few, Sir Thomas.

WYATT. Not many yet. The world as yet, my friend,
Is not half-waked; but every parish tower
Shall clang and clash alarum as we pass,
And pour along the land, and swoll'n and fed
With indraughts and side-currents, in full force
Roll upon London.

CROWD. A Wyatt! a Wyatt! Forward!

KNYVETT. Wyatt, shall we proclaim Elizabeth?

WYATT. I'll think upon it, Knyvett.

KNYVETT. Or Lady Jane?

WYATT. No, poor soul; no.
Ah, gray old castle of Alington, green field
Beside the brimming Medway, it may chance
That I shall never look upon you more.

KNYVETT. Come, now, you're sonnetting again.

WYATT. Not I.
I'll have my head set higher in the state;
Or--if the Lord God will it--on the stake.

[_Exeunt_.



SCENE II. --GUILDHALL.

SIR THOMAS WHITE (The Lord Mayor), LORD WILLIAM HOWARD, SIR RALPH
BAGENHALL, ALDERMEN _and_ CITIZENS.


WHITE. I trust the Queen comes hither with her guards.

HOWARD. Ay, all in arms.

[_Several of the citizens move hastily out of the hall_.

Why do they hurry out there?

WHITE. My Lord, cut out the rotten from your apple,
Your apple eats the better. Let them go.
They go like those old Pharisees in John
Convicted by their conscience, arrant cowards,
Or tamperers with that treason out of Kent.
When will her Grace be here?

HOWARD. In some few minutes.
She will address your guilds and companies.
I have striven in vain to raise a man for her.
But help her in this exigency, make
Your city loyal, and be the mightiest man
This day in England.

WHITE. I am Thomas White.
Few things have fail'd to which I set my will.
I do my most and best.

HOWARD. You know that after
The Captain Brett, who went with your train bands
To fight with Wyatt, had gone over to him
With all his men, the Queen in that distress
Sent Cornwallis and Hastings to the traitor,
Feigning to treat with him about her marriage--
Know too what Wyatt said.

WHITE. He'd sooner be,
While this same marriage question was being argued,
Trusted than trust--the scoundrel--and demanded
Possession of her person and the Tower.

HOWARD. And four of her poor Council too, my Lord,
As hostages.

WHITE. I know it. What do and say
Your Council at this hour?

HOWARD. I will trust you.
We fling ourselves on you, my Lord. The Council,
The Parliament as well, are troubled waters;
And yet like waters of the fen they know not
Which way to flow. All hangs on her address,
And upon you, Lord Mayor.

WHITE. How look'd the city
When now you past it? Quiet?

HOWARD. Like our Council,
Your city is divided. As we past,
Some hail'd, some hiss'd us. There were citizens
Stood each before his shut-up booth, and look'd
As grim and grave as from a funeral.
And here a knot of ruffians all in rags,
With execrating execrable eyes,
Glared at the citizen. Here was a young mother,
Her face on flame, her red hair all blown back,
She shrilling 'Wyatt,' while the boy she held
Mimick'd and piped her 'Wyatt,' as red as she
In hair and cheek; and almost elbowing her,
So close they stood, another, mute as death,
And white as her own milk; her babe in arms
Had felt the faltering of his mother's heart,
And look'd as bloodless. Here a pious Catholic,
Mumbling and mixing up in his scared prayers
Heaven and earth's Maries; over his bow'd shoulder
Scowl'd that world-hated and world-hating beast,
A haggard Anabaptist. Many such groups.
The names of Wyatt, Elizabeth, Courtenay,
Nay the Queen's right to reign--'fore God, the rogues--
Were freely buzzed among them. So I say
Your city is divided, and I fear
One scruple, this or that way, of success
Would turn it thither. Wherefore now the Queen
In this low pulse and palsy of the state,
Bad me to tell you that she counts on you
And on myself as her two hands; on you,
In your own city, as her right, my Lord,
For you are loyal.

WHITE. Am I Thomas White?
One word before she comes. Elizabeth--
Her name is much abused among these traitors.
Where is she? She is loved by all of us.
I scarce have heart to mingle in this matter,
If she should be mishandled.

HOWARD. No; she shall not.
The Queen had written her word to come to court:
Methought I smelt out Renard in the letter,
And fearing for her, sent a secret missive,
Which told her to be sick. Happily or not,
It found her sick indeed.

WHITE. God send her well;
Here comes her Royal Grace.

_Enter_ GUARDS, MARY _and_ GARDINER. SIR THOMAS
WHITE _leads her to a raised seat on the dais_.

WHITE. I, the Lord Mayor, and these our companies
And guilds of London, gathered here, beseech
Your Highness to accept our lowliest thanks
For your most princely presence; and we pray
That we, your true and loyal citizens,
From your own royal lips, at once may know
The wherefore of this coming, and so learn
Your royal will, and do it. --I, Lord Mayor
Of London, and our guilds and companies.

MARY. In mine own person am I come to you,
To tell you what indeed ye see and know,
How traitorously these rebels out of Kent
Have made strong head against ourselves and you.
They would not have me wed the Prince of Spain:
That was their pretext--so they spake at first--
But we sent divers of our Council to them,
And by their answers to the question ask'd,
It doth appear this marriage is the least
Of all their quarrel.
They have betrayed the treason of their hearts:
Seek to possess our person, hold our Tower,
Place and displace our councillors, and use
Both us and them according as they will.
Now what I am ye know right well--your Queen;
To whom, when I was wedded to the realm
And the realm's laws (the spousal ring whereof,
Not ever to be laid aside, I wear
Upon this finger), ye did promise full
Allegiance and obedience to the death.
Ye know my father was the rightful heir
Of England, and his right came down to me
Corroborate by your acts of Parliament:
And as ye were most loving unto him,
So doubtless will ye show yourselves to me.