Lords and Lovers, and Other Dramas

Pem. And I not told? Already I am dead. These ears, that kings Engaged, are now contracted to the worm Permits no forfeiture. Well, well, his message?

Alb. The cardinal assures us that the pope Will cast his power with Henry. Though he loves This praying Louis, well he knows our right.

Pem. The pope our friend? I thank thee, Heaven! England, take up thy heart! Thou yet mayst hope! [_Enter bishop of Winchester_]

Win. God save great Pembroke!

Pem. He alone can do it. Lord Albemarle, and my new-graced son, Will 't please you walk within?

Alb. We are your servants. [_Exeunt Richford and Albemarle, left_]

Pem. Now, Winchester?

Win. You sent for me, your grace. I have made haste.

Pem. Ay, you'd trot fast enough To see me die.

Win. Nay, sir, I hope you've called Me to your service.

Pem. So I have, my lord. A task unfinished I must leave to you. Here is the key to yonder cabinet. Pray you unlock it ... and take out the packet Your eye's now on.

Win. This, sir?

Pem. Ay, that is it. 'Twas Henry Second, grandsire of this Henry, Gave me that packet. Sir, you know the tale Of princess Adelais who journeyed here As the betrothed of Richard, Henry's son. Alack, she never was his bride. Some say That Henry loved her ... I know not ... but she Returned to France, her reason wandering. "If she recover," said the king to me, "Give her this packet; should she die, break seal And learn what you shall do." She did not die, Nor can I say she lives, so sad her state. Her age was bare fifteen when she left England, Her face a lily and her eyes a flood; She now must be midway her fifth decade, A time, I've heard, when subtle changes work Within the mind. A beauteous soul! O God, Restore her now, or lift her e'en to thee! ... Take you the packet, and the king's command. But first your oath. Deceit has sapped my faith So oft I could believe the devil himself Wears gown and mitre. Peter des Roches, will you Be true?

Win. I swear by Heaven.

Pem. That is done, As well as't can be done. Call in my son And Albemarle.

Win. My lords!

Pem. Now let us talk Of England. O, this fleet, this fleet, rigged out By warlike Constance in monk Louis' name! I see it nearing now, leaping the waves, On, on, and none to meet it! Cowards all. What do ye here, ye three, loitering about A sick man's bed? A man almost a corpse. I would not have a servant waste himself To give me drink while England needs his sword.

Rich. My father lord, we have our men abroad Rousing the country for a stout defence. To meet the French with our poor ships were madness; But let them land we'll give them such a rap----

Pem. What? Land your enemy? O, fools and cowards! ... I've given my life for England. Now you'll cast My heart-dear bargain into Louis' hand As 'twere a snood slipped from an easy maid. Fool man! to puff his days out jousting Fate, Who waits but his bare death to start her mock Of horrid pleasantries. Then does she make Dice of the miser's bones, carousal cups Of the ascetic's skull, a hangman's scoff Of clerics' prayer-fed sons; and proudest sires, Who sentried their blue blood, peer back through dust To see all Babylon pour to their line. And now she'll bid my war-ghost eyes behold The land held with my life become a field For foes at holiday!

Win. Compose yourself, your grace.

Pem. Gualo has come, but where is he will set This power its task, and play it for this isle? I can not say that wisdom dies with me, But I could wish more proof of sager mind Than e'er I've had from this small audience. Lord Bishop, you are left custodian Of Henry's ripening youth.

Win. Nor shall I fail To be your worthy heir in this high duty, For still I shall consult with your great spirit, Praying your ghost be mover of my deeds.