No More Learning

Nay, you sicken _me_
To hear you.

HOWARD. Fancy-sick; these things are done,
Done right against the promise of this Queen
Twice given.

PAGET. No faith with heretics, my Lord!
Hist! there be two old gossips--gospellers,
I take it; stand behind the pillar here;
I warrant you they talk about the burning.

_Enter_ TWO OLD WOMEN. JOAN, _and after her_ TIB.

JOAN. Why, it be Tib!

TIB. I cum behind tha, gall, and couldn't make tha hear. Eh, the wind
and the wet! What a day, what a day! nigh upo' judgement daay loike.
Pwoaps be pretty things, Joan, but they wunt set i' the Lord's cheer
o' that daay.

JOAN. I must set down myself, Tib; it be a var waay vor my owld legs
up vro' Islip. Eh, my rheumatizy be that bad howiver be I to win to
the burnin'.

TIB. I should saay 'twur ower by now. I'd ha' been here avore, but
Dumble wur blow'd wi' the wind, and Dumble's the best milcher in
Islip.

JOAN. Our Daisy's as good 'z her.

TIB. Noa, Joan.

JOAN. Our Daisy's butter's as good'z hern.

TIB. Noa, Joan.

JOAN. Our Daisy's cheeses be better.

TIB. Noa, Joan.

JOAN. Eh, then ha' thy waay wi' me, Tib; ez thou hast wi' thy owld
man.

TIB. Ay, Joan, and my owld man wur up and awaay betimes wi' dree hard
eggs for a good pleace at the burnin'; and barrin' the wet, Hodge 'ud
ha' been a-harrowin' o' white peasen i' the outfield--and barrin' the
wind, Dumble wur blow'd wi' the wind, so 'z we was forced to stick
her, but we fetched her round at last. Thank the Lord therevore.
Dumble's the best milcher in Islip.

JOAN. Thou's thy way wi' man and beast, Tib. I wonder at tha', it
beats me! Eh, but I do know ez Pwoaps and vires be bad things; tell
'ee now, I heerd summat as summun towld summun o' owld Bishop
Gardiner's end; there wur an owld lord a-cum to dine wi' un, and a wur
so owld a couldn't bide vor his dinner, but a had to bide howsomiver,
vor 'I wunt dine,' says my Lord Bishop, says he, 'not till I hears ez
Latimer and Ridley be a-vire;' and so they bided on and on till vour
o' the clock, till his man cum in post vro' here, and tells un ez the
vire has tuk holt. 'Now,' says the Bishop, says he, 'we'll gwo to
dinner;' and the owld lord fell to 's meat wi' a will, God bless un!
but Gardiner wur struck down like by the hand o' God avore a could
taste a mossel, and a set un all a-vire, so 'z the tongue on un cum
a-lolluping out o' 'is mouth as black as a rat. Thank the Lord,
therevore.

PAGET. The fools!

TIB. Ay, Joan; and Queen Mary gwoes on a-burnin' and a-burnin', to get
her baaby born; but all her burnin's 'ill never burn out the hypocrisy
that makes the water in her. There's nought but the vire of God's hell
ez can burn out that.

JOAN. Thank the Lord, therevore.

PAGET. The fools!

TIB. A-burnin', and a-burnin', and a-makin' o' volk madder and madder;
but tek thou my word vor't, Joan,--and I bean't wrong not twice i' ten
year--the burnin' o' the owld archbishop'll burn the Pwoap out o'
this 'ere land vor iver and iver.

HOWARD. Out of the church, you brace of cursed crones, Or I will have
you duck'd! (_Women hurry out_. ) Said I not right? For how should
reverend prelate or throned prince Brook for an hour such brute
malignity? Ah, what an acrid wine has Luther brew'd!

PAGET. Pooh, pooh, my Lord! poor garrulous country-wives.
Buy you their cheeses, and they'll side with you;
You cannot judge the liquor from the lees.

HOWARD. I think that in some sort we may. But see,

_Enter_ PETERS.

Peters, my gentleman, an honest Catholic,
Who follow'd with the crowd to Cranmer's fire.
One that would neither misreport nor lie,
Not to gain paradise: no, nor if the Pope,
Charged him to do it--he is white as death.
Peters, how pale you look! you bring the smoke
Of Cranmer's burning with you.

PETERS. Twice or thrice
The smoke of Cranmer's burning wrapt me round.

HOWARD. Peters, you know me Catholic, but English.
Did he die bravely? Tell me that, or leave
All else untold.

PETERS. My Lord, he died most bravely.

HOWARD. Then tell me all.

PAGET. Ay, Master Peters, tell us.

PETERS. You saw him how he past among the crowd;
And ever as he walk'd the Spanish friars
Still plied him with entreaty and reproach:
But Cranmer, as the helmsman at the helm
Steers, ever looking to the happy haven
Where he shall rest at night, moved to his death;
And I could see that many silent hands
Came from the crowd and met his own; and thus
When we had come where Ridley burnt with Latimer,
He, with a cheerful smile, as one whose mind
Is all made up, in haste put off the rags
They had mock'd his misery with, and all in white,
His long white beard, which he had never shaven
Since Henry's death, down-sweeping to the chain,
Wherewith they bound him to the stake, he stood
More like an ancient father of the Church,
Than heretic of these times; and still the friars
Plied him, but Cranmer only shook his head,
Or answer'd them in smiling negatives;
Whereat Lord Williams gave a sudden cry:--
'Make short! make short! ' and so they lit the wood.
Then Cranmer lifted his left hand to heaven,
And thrust his right into the bitter flame;
And crying, in his deep voice, more than once,
'This hath offended--this unworthy hand! '
So held it till it all was burn'd, before
The flame had reach'd his body; I stood near--
Mark'd him--he never uttered moan of pain:
He never stirr'd or writhed, but, like a statue,
Unmoving in the greatness of the flame,
Gave up the ghost; and so past martyr-like--
Martyr I may not call him--past--but whither?
PAGET. To purgatory, man, to purgatory.

PETERS. Nay, but, my Lord, he denied purgatory.

PAGET. Why then to heaven, and God ha' mercy on him.

HOWARD. Paget, despite his fearful heresies,
I loved the man, and needs must moan for him;
O Cranmer!

PAGET. But your moan is useless now:
Come out, my Lord, it is a world of fools.

[_Exeunt_.




ACT V.


SCENE I. --LONDON. HALL IN THE PALACE.

QUEEN, SIR NICHOLAS HEATH.


HEATH. Madam,
I do assure you, that it must be look'd to:
Calais is but ill-garrison'd, in Guisnes
Are scarce two hundred men, and the French fleet
Rule in the narrow seas. It must be look'd to,
If war should fall between yourself and France;
Or you will lose your Calais.

MARY. It shall be look'd to;
I wish you a good morning, good Sir Nicholas:
Here is the King.
[_Exit_ HEATH.

_Enter_ PHILIP.

PHILIP. Sir Nicholas tells you true,
And you must look to Calais when I go.

MARY. Go? must you go, indeed--again--so soon?
Why, nature's licensed vagabond, the swallow,
That might live always in the sun's warm heart,
Stays longer here in our poor north than you:--
Knows where he nested--ever comes again.

PHILIP. And, Madam, so shall I.

MARY. O, will you? will you?
I am faint with fear that you will come no more.

PHILIP. Ay, ay; but many voices call me hence.

MARY. Voices--I hear unhappy rumours--nay,
I say not, I believe. What voices call you
Dearer than mine that should be dearest to you?
Alas, my Lord! what voices and how many?

PHILIP. The voices of Castille and Aragon,
Granada, Naples, Sicily, and Milan,--
The voices of Franche-Comte, and the Netherlands,
The voices of Peru and Mexico,
Tunis, and Oran, and the Philippines,
And all the fair spice-islands of the East.

MARY (_admiringly_).
You are the mightiest monarch upon earth,
I but a little Queen: and, so indeed,
Need you the more.

PHILIP. A little Queen! but when
I came to wed your majesty, Lord Howard,
Sending an insolent shot that dash'd the seas
Upon us, made us lower our kingly flag
To yours of England.

MARY. Howard is all English!
There is no king, not were he ten times king,
Ten times our husband, but must lower his flag
To that of England in the seas of England.

PHILIP. Is that your answer?

MARY. Being Queen of England,
I have none other.

PHILIP. So.

MARY. But wherefore not
Helm the huge vessel of your state, my liege,
Here by the side of her who loves you most?

PHILIP. No, Madam, no! a candle in the sun
Is all but smoke--a star beside the moon
Is all but lost; your people will not crown me--
Your people are as cheerless as your clime;
Hate me and mine: witness the brawls, the gibbets.
Here swings a Spaniard--there an Englishman;
The peoples are unlike as their complexion;
Yet will I be your swallow and return--
But now I cannot bide.

MARY. Not to help _me? _
They hate _me_ also for my love to you,
My Philip; and these judgments on the land--
Harvestless autumns, horrible agues, plague--

PHILIP. The blood and sweat of heretics at the stake
Is God's best dew upon the barren field.
Burn more!

MARY. I will, I will; and you will stay?

PHILIP. Have I not said? Madam, I came to sue
Your Council and yourself to declare war.

MARY. Sir, there are many English in your ranks
To help your battle.

PHILIP. So far, good. I say
I came to sue your Council and yourself
To declare war against the King of France.

MARY. Not to see me?

PHILIP. Ay, Madam, to see you.
Unalterably and pesteringly fond! [_Aside_.
But, soon or late you must have war with France;
King Henry warms your traitors at his hearth.
Carew is there, and Thomas Stafford there.
Courtenay, belike--

MARY. A fool and featherhead!

PHILIP. Ay, but they use his name. In brief, this Henry
Stirs up your land against you to the intent
That you may lose your English heritage.
And then, your Scottish namesake marrying
The Dauphin, he would weld France, England, Scotland,
Into one sword to hack at Spain and me.

MARY. And yet the Pope is now colleagued with France;
You make your wars upon him down in Italy:--
Philip, can that be well?

PHILIP. Content you, Madam;
You must abide my judgment, and my father's,
Who deems it a most just and holy war.
The Pope would cast the Spaniard out of Naples:
He calls us worse than Jews, Moors, Saracens.
The Pope has pushed his horns beyond his mitre--
Beyond his province. Now,
Duke Alva will but touch him on the horns,
And he withdraws; and of his holy head--
For Alva is true son of the true church--
No hair is harm'd. Will you not help me here?

MARY. Alas! the Council will not hear of war.
They say your wars are not the wars of England.
They will not lay more taxes on a land
So hunger-nipt and wretched; and you know
The crown is poor.
We have given the church-lands back:
The nobles would not; nay, they clapt their hands
Upon their swords when ask'd; and therefore God
Is hard upon the people. What's to be done?
Sir, I will move them in your cause again,
And we will raise us loans and subsidies
Among the merchants; and Sir Thomas Gresham
Will aid us. There is Antwerp and the Jews.

PHILIP. Madam, my thanks.

MARY. And you will stay your going?

PHILIP. And further to discourage and lay lame
The plots of France, altho' you love her not,
You must proclaim Elizabeth your heir.
She stands between you and the Queen of Scots.

MARY. The Queen of Scots at least is Catholic.

PHILIP. Ay, Madam, Catholic; but I will not have
The King of France the King of England too.

MARY. But she's a heretic, and, when I am gone,
Brings the new learning back.

PHILIP. It must be done.
You must proclaim Elizabeth your heir.

MARY. Then it is done; but you will stay your going
Somewhat beyond your settled purpose?

PHILIP. No!

MARY. What, not one day?

PHILIP. You beat upon the rock.

MARY. And I am broken there.

PHILIP. Is this a place
To wail in, Madam? what! a public hall.
Go in, I pray you.

MARY. Do not seem so changed.
Say go; but only say it lovingly.

PHILIP. You do mistake. I am not one to change.
I never loved you more.

MARY. Sire, I obey you.
Come quickly.

PHILIP. Ay.
[_Exit_ MARY.

_Enter_ COUNT DE FERIA.

FERIA (_aside_). The Queen in tears!

PHILIP. Feria!
Hast thou not mark'd--come closer to mine ear--
How doubly aged this Queen of ours hath grown
Since she lost hope of bearing us a child?

FERIA. Sire, if your Grace hath mark'd it, so have I.

PHILIP. Hast thou not likewise mark'd Elizabeth,
How fair and royal--like a Queen, indeed?

FERIA. Allow me the same answer as before--
That if your Grace hath mark'd her, so have I.

PHILIP. Good, now; methinks my Queen is like enough
To leave me by and by.

FERIA. To leave you, sire?

PHILIP. I mean not like to live. Elizabeth--
To Philibert of Savoy, as you know,
We meant to wed her; but I am not sure
She will not serve me better--so my Queen
Would leave me--as--my wife.

FERIA. Sire, even so.

PHILIP. She will not have Prince Philibert of Savoy.

FERIA. No, sire.

PHILIP. I have to pray you, some odd time,
To sound the Princess carelessly on this;
Not as from me, but as your phantasy;
And tell me how she takes it.

FERIA. Sire, I will.

PHILIP. I am not certain but that Philibert
Shall be the man; and I shall urge his suit
Upon the Queen, because I am not certain:
You understand, Feria.

FERIA. Sire, I do.

PHILIP. And if you be not secret in this matter,
You understand me there, too?

FERIA. Sire, I do.

PHILIP. You must be sweet and supple, like a Frenchman.
She is none of those who loathe the honeycomb.

[_Exit_ FERIA.

_Enter_ RENARD.

RENARD. My liege, I bring you goodly tidings.

PHILIP. Well?

RENARD. There _will_ be war with France, at last, my liege;
Sir Thomas Stafford, a bull-headed ass,
Sailing from France, with thirty Englishmen,
Hath taken Scarboro' Castle, north of York;
Proclaims himself protector, and affirms
The Queen has forfeited her right to reign
By marriage with an alien--other things
As idle; a weak Wyatt! Little doubt
This buzz will soon be silenced; but the Council
(I have talk'd with some already) are for war.
This the fifth conspiracy hatch'd in France;
They show their teeth upon it; and your Grace,
So you will take advice of mine, should stay
Yet for awhile, to shape and guide the event.

PHILIP. Good! Renard, I will stay then.

RENARD. Also, sire,
Might I not say--to please your wife, the Queen?

PHILIP. Ay, Renard, if you care to put it so.

[_Exeunt_.



SCENE II. --A ROOM IN THE PALACE.

MARY, _sitting: a rose in her hand_. LADY CLARENCE. ALICE _in the
background_.


MARY. Look! I have play'd with this poor rose so long
I have broken off the head.

LADY CLARENCE. Your Grace hath been
More merciful to many a rebel head
That should have fallen, and may rise again.

MARY. There were not many hang'd for Wyatt's rising.

LADY CLARENCE. Nay, not two hundred.

MARY. I could weep for them
And her, and mine own self and all the world.

LADY CLARENCE. For her? for whom, your Grace?

_Enter_ USHER.

USHER. The Cardinal.

_Enter_ CARDINAL POLE. (MARY _rises_. )

MARY. Reginald Pole, what news hath plagued thy heart?
What makes thy favour like the bloodless head
Fall'n on the block, and held up by the hair?
Philip? --

POLE. No, Philip is as warm in life
As ever.

MARY. Ay, and then as cold as ever.
Is Calais taken?

POLE. Cousin, there hath chanced
A sharper harm to England and to Rome,
Than Calais taken. Julius the Third
Was ever just, and mild, and father-like;
But this new Pope Caraffa, Paul the Fourth,
Not only reft me of that legateship
Which Julius gave me, and the legateship
Annex'd to Canterbury--nay, but worse--
And yet I must obey the Holy Father,
And so must you, good cousin;--worse than all,
A passing bell toll'd in a dying ear--
He hath cited me to Rome, for heresy,
Before his Inquisition.

MARY. I knew it, cousin,
But held from you all papers sent by Rome,
That you might rest among us, till the Pope,
To compass which I wrote myself to Rome,
Reversed his doom, and that you might not seem
To disobey his Holiness.

POLE. He hates Philip;
He is all Italian, and he hates the Spaniard;
He cannot dream that _I_ advised the war;
He strikes thro' me at Philip and yourself.
Nay, but I know it of old, he hates me too;
So brands me in the stare of Christendom
A heretic!
Now, even now, when bow'd before my time,
The house half-ruin'd ere the lease be out;
When I should guide the Church in peace at home,
After my twenty years of banishment,
And all my lifelong labour to uphold
The primacy--a heretic. Long ago,
When I was ruler in the patrimony,
I was too lenient to the Lutheran,
And I and learned friends among ourselves
Would freely canvass certain Lutheranisms.
What then, he knew I was no Lutheran.
A heretic!
He drew this shaft against me to the head,
When it was thought I might be chosen Pope,
But then withdrew it. In full consistory,
When I was made Archbishop, he approved me.
And how should he have sent me Legate hither,
Deeming me heretic? and what heresy since?
But he was evermore mine enemy,
And hates the Spaniard--fiery-choleric,
A drinker of black, strong, volcanic wines,
That ever make him fierier. I, a heretic?
Your Highness knows that in pursuing heresy
I have gone beyond your late Lord Chancellor,--
He cried Enough! enough! before his death. --
Gone beyond him and mine own natural man
(It was God's cause); so far they call me now,
The scourge and butcher of their English church.

MARY. Have courage, your reward is Heaven itself.

POLE. They groan amen; they swarm into the fire
Like flies--for what? no dogma. They know nothing;
They burn for nothing.

MARY. You have done your best.

POLE. Have done my best, and as a faithful son,
That all day long hath wrought his father's work,
When back he comes at evening hath the door
Shut on him by the father whom he loved,
His early follies cast into his teeth,
And the poor son turn'd out into the street
To sleep, to die--I shall die of it, cousin.

MARY. I pray you be not so disconsolate;
I still will do mine utmost with the Pope.
Poor cousin!
Have not I been the fast friend of your life
Since mine began, and it was thought we two
Might make one flesh, and cleave unto each other
As man and wife?

POLE. Ah, cousin, I remember
How I would dandle you upon my knee
At lisping-age. I watch'd you dancing once
With your huge father; he look'd the Great Harry,
You but his cockboat; prettily you did it,
And innocently. No--we were not made
One flesh in happiness, no happiness here;
But now we are made one flesh in misery;
Our bridemaids are not lovely--Disappointment,
Ingratitude, Injustice, Evil-tongue,
Labour-in-vain.

MARY. Surely, not all in vain.
Peace, cousin, peace! I am sad at heart myself.

POLE. Our altar is a mound of dead men's clay,
Dug from the grave that yawns for us beyond;
And there is one Death stands behind the Groom,
And there is one Death stands behind the Bride--

MARY. Have you been looking at the 'Dance of Death'?

POLE. No; but these libellous papers which I found
Strewn in your palace. Look you here--the Pope
Pointing at me with 'Pole, the heretic,
Thou hast burnt others, do thou burn thyself,
Or I will burn thee;' and this other; see! --
'We pray continually for the death
Of our accursed Queen and Cardinal Pole. '
This last--I dare not read it her. [_Aside_.

MARY. Away!
Why do you bring me these?
I thought you knew better. I never read,
I tear them; they come back upon my dreams.
The hands that write them should be burnt clean off
As Cranmer's, and the fiends that utter them
Tongue-torn with pincers, lash'd to death, or lie
Famishing in black cells, while famish'd rats
Eat them alive. Why do they bring me these?
Do you mean to drive me mad?

POLE.