Part 22 (1/2)

_Enter_ SIR HENRY BEDINGFIELD.

BEDINGFIELD. One, whose bolts, That jail you from free life, bar you from death.

There haunt some Papist ruffians hereabout Would murder you.

ELIZABETH. I thank you heartily, sir, But I am royal, tho' your prisoner, And G.o.d hath blest or cursed me with a nose-- Your boots are from the horses.

BEDINGFIELD. Ay, my Lady.

When next there comes a missive from the Queen It shall be all my study for one hour To rose and lavender my horsiness, Before I dare to glance upon your Grace.

ELIZABETH. A missive from the Queen: last time she wrote, I had like to have lost my life: it takes my breath: O G.o.d, sir, do you look upon your boots, Are you so small a man? Help me: what think you, Is it life or death.

BEDINGFIELD. I thought not on my boots; The devil take all boots were ever made Since man went barefoot. See, I lay it here, For I will come no nearer to your Grace;

[_Laying down the letter_.

And, whether it bring you bitter news or sweet, And G.o.d hath given your Grace a nose, or not, I'll help you, if I may.

ELIZABETH. Your pardon, then; It is the heat and narrowness of the cage That makes the captive testy; with free wing The world were all one Araby. Leave me now, Will you, companion to myself, sir?

BEDINGFIELD. Will I?

With most exceeding willingness, I will; You know I never come till I be call'd.

[_Exit_.

ELIZABETH. It lies there folded: is there venom in it?

A snake--and if I touch it, it may sting.

Come, come, the worst!

Best wisdom is to know the worst at once. [_Reads:_

'It is the King's wish, that you should wed Prince Philibert of Savoy.

You are to come to Court on the instant; and think of this in your coming. 'MARY THE QUEEN.'

Think I have many thoughts; I think there may be birdlime here for me; I think they fain would have me from the realm; I think the Queen may never bear a child; I think that I may be some time the Queen, Then, Queen indeed: no foreign prince or priest Should fill my throne, myself upon the steps.

I think I will not marry anyone, Specially not this landless Philibert Of Savoy; but, if Philip menace me, I think that I will play with Philibert, As once the Holy Father did with mine, Before my father married my good mother,-- For fear of Spain.

_Enter_ LADY.

LADY. O Lord! your Grace, your Grace, I feel so happy: it seems that we shall fly These bald, blank fields, and dance into the sun That s.h.i.+nes on princes.

ELIZABETH. Yet, a moment since, I wish'd myself the milkmaid singing here, To kiss and cuff among the birds and flowers-- A right rough life and healthful.

LADY. But the wench Hath her own troubles; she is weeping now; For the wrong Robin took her at her word.

Then the cow kick'd, and all her milk was spilt.

Your Highness such a milkmaid?

ELIZABETH. I had kept My Robins and my cows in sweeter order Had I been such.

LADY (_slyly_). And had your Grace a Robin?