Part 7 (2/2)

I know not wherefore--some mischance of flood, And broken bridge, or spavin'd horse, or wave And wind at their old battle: he must have written.

MARY. But Philip never writes me one poor word.

Which in his absence had been all my wealth.

Strange in a wooer!

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

MARY. G.o.d 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!

G.o.d 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.

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