SCENE. A Room in the Tower.

Enter Guildford,

Jane, and Lieutenant.

Guild. Good morrow to the partner of my woe. Jane. Good morrow to my lord, my lovely Dudley: Why do you look so sad, my dearest lord?

Guild. Nay, why doth Jane thus with a heavy eye, And a defected look, salute the day?

Sorrow doth ill become thy silver brow:

Sad grief lies dead, so long as thou liv'st fair;

In my Jane's joy I do not care for care.

Jane. My looks, my love, are sorted with my heart: The sun himself doth scantly show his face. Out of this firm grate you may perceive The Tower-hill throng'd with store of people, As if they gap'd for some strange novelty.

Guild. Though sleep do seldom dwell in men of

care,

Yet I did this night sleep, and this night dream'd
My princely father, great Northumberland,
Was married to a stately bride;

And then methought, just on his bridal day,
A poison'd draught did take his life away.
Jane. Let not fond visions so appal my love;

For dreams do oftentimes contràry prove.

Guild. The nights are tedious, and the days are sad:

And see you how the people stand in heaps,
Each man sad-looking on his oppos'd object,
As if a general passion possess'd them?
Their eyes do seem as dropping as the moon,

As if prepared for a tragedy;

For never swarms of people there do tread,
But to rob life and to enrich the dead,

And show they wept.

Lieut. My lord, they did so, for I was there.

Guild. I pray, resolve us, good Master Lieutenant, Who was it yonder that tender'd up his life To nature's death?

Lieut. Pardon me, my lord;

'Tis felony to acquaint you with the death
Of any prisoner; yet, to resolve your grace,
It was your father, great Northumberland,
That this day lost his head.

Guild. Peace rest his soul!
His sins be buried in his grave,
And not remember'd in his epitaph!
But who comes here?

Jane. My father prisoner!

(Enter Suffolk, guarded forth.)

Suff. O Jane, now naught but fear! thy title and Thy state thou now must leave for a small grave. Had I been contented to ha' been great, I had stood; But now my rising is pull'd down with blood.

Farewell!

Jane.

Point me my house of prayers.

Is grief So short? 'Twas wont to be full of words, 'tis true; But now death's lesson bids a cold adieu. Farewell! Thus friends on desperate journeys part; Breaking off words with tears, that swell the heart.

[Exit Suffolk, guarded.

Lieut. 'Tis the pleasure of the queen that you part lodgings

Till your arraignment, which must be to-morrow. Jane. Good Master Lieutenant, let us pray together.

Lieut. Pardon me, madam, I may not; they that owe1 you, sway me.

Guild. Entreat not, Jane: though he our bodies part,

Our souls shall meet: farewell, my love!

Jane. My Dudley, my own heart!

[Exeunt.

A PRAISE OF PRINCESS MARY

JOHN HEYWOOD

"BLOODY MARY " has not left an amiable memory, but she had at least one faithful friend. John Heywood, singer, jester, playwright, and actor, was chief entertainer to. Henry VIII.'s court, and, though a loyal Romanist, was protected by the young King Edward. His attachment to Mary was genuine. When the fanatic queen lay on her death-bed, he was called to try and cheer her with his sprightly talk and stories. The following song he wrote for her when she was a princess of eighteen, in deep disgrace as daughter of the divorced Katharine and with no other voice than this poor singer's raised in her honor.

If all the world were sought full far,
Who could find such a wight?
Her beauty twinkleth like a star
Within the frosty night.

Her colour comes and goes
With such a goodly grace,
More ruddy than the rose,
Within her lively face.

The mirth that she doth use

Is mixt with shamefastness.

All vices she eschews

And hateth idleness.

She doth as far exceed

These women nowadays,
As doth the flower the weed,
And more, a thousand ways.

This praise I shall her give, —
When Death doth what he can,

Her honest name shall live

Within the mouth of man.

QUEEN MARY

LORD TENNYSON

THE girlhood of Mary had been an unhappy one.

Her Spanish blood and her devotion to the Roman Catholic religion drew upon her the cordial dislike of Henry VIII. She was guarded as though she were plotting treason, and her title to the throne was denied. The people loved her because she was ill-treated and were determined that justice should be done her. By blind pursuit of her own purposes Mary forfeited their confidence. She was bent on restoring the Pope's authority in England and on taking for a husband Philip II., King of Spain. The marriage was heartily disliked by the people and gave origin to numerous plots to place the Princess Elizabeth on the throne. The rigorous persecution of Protestants rendered the queen hateful to her subjects and had the effect of furthering the Reformation.

ACT III

SCENE I. A Street in London.

(The King and Queen pass, attended by Peers of the Realm, Officers of State, etc. Cannon shot off.)

Crowd. Philip and Mary, Philip and Mary! Long live the King and Queen, Philip and Mary! Stafford. They smile as if content with one another. Bagenhall. A smile abroad is oft a scowl at home.

(Enter Gardiner turning back from the procession.) Gardiner. Knave, wilt thou wear thy cap before the Queen?

Man. My Lord, I stand so squeezed among the crowd

I cannot lift my hands unto my head.

Gardiner. Knock off his cap there, some of you about him!

See there be others that can use their hands.

Thou art one of Wyatt's men?

Man.

Gardiner. Thy name, thou knave?

Man.

No, my Lord, no.

I am nobody, my Lord.

Gardiner (shouting). God's passion! knave, thy name?

Gardiner. Ay, rascal, if I leave thee ears to hear. Find out his name and bring it to me. (To Attendant.)

Attendant.

Ay, my Lord.