Classic Poem

[SCENE XXV.]

E LINOR in child-bed, with her daughter J OAN and other Ladies.

Q. Elinor . Call forth those renowmed friars come from France;
And raise me, gentle ladies, in my bed,
That while this faltering engine of my speech
I learn to utter my concealed guilt,
I may repeat and so repent my sins.
Joan . What plague afflicts your royal majesty?
Q. Elinor . Ah, Joan, I perish through a double war!
First in this painful prison of my soul,
A world of dreadful sins holp thee to fight,
And nature, having lost her working power,
Yields up her earthly fortunes unto death.
Next of a war my soul is over-preased,
In that my conscience loaded with misdeeds,
Sits seeing my confusion to ensue,
Without especial favour from above.
Joan . Your grace must account it a warrior's cross,
To make resist where danger there is none.
Subdue your fever by precious art,
And help you still through hope of heavenly aid.
Q. Elinor . The careless shepherds on the mountain's tops,
That see the seaman floating on the surge,
The threatening winds conspiring with the floods
To overwhelm and drown his crazed keel,
His tack[l]es torn, his sails borne overboard,
How pale, like mallow flowers, the master stands
Upon his hatches, waiting for his jerk,
Wringing his hands that ought to play the pump,
May blame his fear that laboureth not for life:
So thou, poor soul, may tell a servile tale,
May counsel me; but I that prove the pain
May hear thee talk but not redress my harm.
But ghastly death already is address'd
To glean the latest blossom of my life:
My spirit fails me. Are these friars come?

Enter [Lady with ] the King and his Brother in Friars' weeds .

Longsh. Dominus vobiscum!
Lancaster . Et cum spiritu tuo!
Q. Elinor . Draw near, grave fathers, and approach my bed. —
Forbear our presence, ladies, for a while,
And leave us to our secret conference.
Longsh . What cause hath moved your royal majesty
To call your servants from their country's bounds,
For to attend your pleasure here in England's court?
Q. Elinor . See you not, holy friars, mine estate,
My body weak, inclining to my grave?
Lancaster . We see and sorrow for thy pain, fair queen.
Q. Elinor . By these external signs of my defects,
Friars, conceive ye mine internal grief.
My soul, ah, wretched soul, within this breast,
Faint for to mount the heavens with wings of grace,
Is hindered by flocking troops of sin,
That stop my passage to my wished bowers.
Longsh . The nearer, so the greatest hope of health:
And deign to us for to impart your grief,
Who by our prayers and counsel ought to arm
Aspiring souls to scale the heavenly grace.
Q. Elinor . Shame and remorse doth stop my course of speech.
Longsh . Madam, you need not dread our conference,
Who, by the order of the holy church,
Are all enjoined to sacred secrecy.
Q. Elinor . Did I not think, nay, were I not assured,
Your wisdoms would be silent in that cause,
No fear could make me to bewray myself.
But, gentle fathers, I have thought it good
Not to rely upon these Englishmen,
But on your troths, you holy men of France:
Then, as you love your life and England's weal,
Keep secret my confession from the king;
Fo why my story nearly toucheth him,
Whose love compared with my loose delights,
With many sorrows that my heart affrights.
Lancaster . My heart misgives.
Longsh . Be silent, fellow friar.
Q. Elinor . In pride of youth, when I was young and fair,
And gracious in the King of England's sight,
The day before that night his highness should
Possess the pleasure of my wedlock's bed,
Caitiff, accursed monster as I was,
His brother Edmund, beautiful and young,
Upon my bridal couch by my consent
Enjoys the flower and favour of my love,
And I became a traitress to my lord.
Longsh. Facinus, scelus, infandum nefas!
Lancaster . Madam, through sickness, weakness of your wits, 'twere very good to bethink yourself before you speak.
Q. Elinor . Good father, not so weak, but that, I wot,
My heart doth rent to think upon the time.
But why exclaims this holy friar so?
O, pray, then, for my faults, religious man!
Longsh . 'Tis charity in men of my degree
To sorrow for our neighbours' heinous sins:
And madam, though some promise love to you,
And zeal to Edmund, brother to the king,
I pray the heavens you both may soon repent.
But might it please your highness to proceed?
Q. Elinor Unto this sin a worser doth succeed;
For, Joan of Acon, the supposed child
And daughter of my lord the English king,
Is basely born, begotten of a friar,
Such time as I was there arrived in France.
His only true and lawful son, my friends,
He is my hope, his son that should succeed,
Is Edward of Carnarvon, lately born.
Now all the scruples of my troubled mind
I sighing sound within your reverent ears.
O, pray, for pity! pray, for I must die.
Remit, my God, the folly of my youth!
My grieved spirits attends thy mercy-seat.
Fathers, farewell; commend me to my king,
Commend me to my children and my friends,
And close mine eyes, for death will have his due.
Longsh . Blushing I shut these thine enticing lamps,
The wanton baits that made me suck my bane.
Pyropus' harden'd flames did ne'er reflect
More hideous flames than from my breast arise.
What fault more vild unto thy dearest lord!
Our daughter base-begotten of a priest,
And Ned, my brother, partner of my love!
O, that those eyes that lighten'd Caesar's brain,
O, that those looks that master'd Phaebus' brand,
Or else those looks that stain Medusa's far,
Should shrine deceit, desire, and lawless lust!
Unhappy king, dishonour'd in thy stock!
Hence, feigned weeds! unfeigned is my grief.
Lancaster . Dread prince, my brother, if my vows avail,
I call to witness heaven in my behalf;
If zealous prayer might drive you from suspect,
I bend my knees, and humbly crave this boon,
That you will drive misdeeds out of your mind.
May never good betide my life, my lord,
If once I dream'd upon this damned deed!
But my deceased sister and your queen,
Afflicted with recureless maladies,
Impatient of her pain, grew lunatic,
Discovering errors never dreamed upon.
To prove this true, the greatest men of all
Within their learned volumes do record
That all extremes end in naught but extremes.
Then think, O king, her agony in death
Bereaves her sense and memory at once,
So that she spoke she knew nor how or what.
Longsh . Sir, sir, fain would your highness hide your faults
By cunning vows and glozing terms of art;
And well thou mayst delude these listening ears,
Yet never assuage by proof this jealous heart.
Traitor, thy head shall raunsom my disgrace.
Daughter of darkness, whose accursed bower
The poet feigned to lie upon Avernus,
Whereas Cimmerian darkness checks the sun,
Dread Jealousy, afflict me not so sore!
Fair Queen Elinor could never be so false: —
Ay, but she 'vowed these treasons at her death,
A time not fit to fashion monstrous lies.
Ah, my ungrateful brother as thou art,
Could not my love, nay, more, could not the law,
Nay, further, could not nature thee allure
For to refrain from this incestuous sin?
Haste from my sight!
[ To those within ] Call Joan of Acon here! —
The lukewarm spring distilling from his eyes,
His oaths, his vows, his reasons wrested with remorse
From forth his breast, — impoison'd with suspect,
Fain would I deem that false I find too true.

Enter J OAN of A CON .

[ Joan .] I come to know what England's king commands.
I wonder why your highness greets me thus,
With strange regard and unacquainted terms
Longsh . Ah, Joan, this wonder needs must wound thy breast,
For it hath well-nigh slain my wretched heart.
Joan . What, is the queen, my sovereign mother, dead?
Woe's me, unhappy lady, woe-begone!
Longsh . The queen is dead; yet, Joan, lament not thou:
Poor soul, guiltless art thou of this deceit,
That hath more cause to curse than to complain.
Joan . My dreadful soul, assailed with doleful speech,
'Joins me to bow my knees unto the ground,
Beseeching your most royal majesty
To rid your woeful daughter of suspect.
Longsh . Ay, daughter! Joan, poor soul, thou art deceived!
The king of England is no scorned priest.
Joan . Was not the Lady Elinor your spouse,
And am not I the offspring of your loins?
Longsh . Ay, but when ladies list to run astray,
The poor supposed father wears the horn,
And pleating leave their liege in princes' laps.
Joan, thou art daughter to a lecherous friar;
A friar was thy father, hapless Joan;
Thy mother in confession, vows no less,
And I, vild wretch, with sorrow heard no less.
Joan . What, am I, then, a friar's base-born brat?
Presumptuous wretch, why prease I 'fore my king?
How can I look my husband in the face?
Why should I live since my renown is lost?
Away, thou wanton weed! hence, world's delight
Longsh. L'orecchie abbassa, come vinto e stanco
Destrier c' ha in bocca il fren, gli sproni al fianco. —
O sommo Dio, come i giudicii umani
Spesso offuscati son da un nembo oscuro! —
Hapless and wretched, lift up thy heavy head;
Curse not so much at this unhappy chance;
Unconstant Fortune still will have her course.
Joan . My king, my king, let Fortune have her course: —
Fly thou, my soul, and take a better course.
Ay's me, from royal state I now am fall'n!
You purple springs that wander in my veins,
And whilom wont to feed my heavy heart,
Now all at once make haste, and pity me,
And stop your powers, and change your native course;
Dissolve to air, you lukewarm bloody streams,
And cease to be, that I may be no more.
You curled locks, draw from this cursed head:
Abase her pomp, for Joan is basely born! —
Ah, Glocester, thou, poor Glocester, hast the wrong! —
Die, wretch! haste death, for Joan hath lived too long.
Longsh . Revive thee, hapless lady; grieve not thus. —
In vain speak I, for she revives no more.
Poor hapless soul, thy own espected moans
Have wrought thy sudden and untimely death. —
Lords, ladies, haste!

Enter G LOCESTER running with Ladies

Ah, Glocester, art thou come?
Then must I now present a tragedy.
Thy Joan is dead: yet grieve thou not her fall;
She was too base a spouse for such a prince.
Glocester . Conspire you, then, with heavens to work my harms?
O sweet assuager of our mortal 'miss,
Desired death, deprive me of my life,
That I in death may end my life and love!
Longsh . Glocester, thy king is partner of thy heaviness,
Although nor tongue nor eyes bewray his mean;
For I have lost a flower as fair as thine,
A love more dear, for Elinor is dead.
But since the heavenly ordinance decrees
That all things change in their prefixed time,
Be thou content, and bear it in thy breast,
Thy swelling grief, as needs I must [bear] mine.
Thy Joan of Acon, and my queen deceased,
Shall have that honour as beseems their state.
You peers of England, see in royal pomp
These breathless bodies be entombed straight,
With 'tired colours cover'd all with black.
Let Spanish steeds, as swift as fleeting wind,
Convey these princes to their funeral:
Before them let a hundred mourners ride.
In every time of their enforced abode,
Rear up a cross in token of their worth,
Whereon fair Elinores picture shall be placed.
Arrived at London near our palace-bounds,
Inter my lovely Elinor, late deceased;
And, in remembrance of her royalty,
Erect a rich and stately carved cross,
Whereon her stature shall with glory shine,
And henceforth see you call it Charing-cross;
For why the chariest and the choicest queen,
That ever did delight my royal eyes,
There dwell[s] in darkness whilst I die in grief.
But, soft! what tidings with these pursuivants?

Messenger approaches from M ORTIMER .

Mess . Sir Roger Mortimer, with all success,
As erst your grace by message did command,
Is here at hand, in purpose to present
Your highness with his signs of victory.
And trothless Baliol, their accursed king,
With fire and sword doth threat Northumberland.
Longsh . How one affliction calls another over!
First death torments me, then I feel disgrace!
Again, Lluellen he rebels in Wales;
And false Baliol means to brave me too;
But I will find provision for them all:
My constancy shall conquer death and shame.
Glocester . Now, Joan of Acon, let me mourn thy fall.
Sole, here alone, now set thee down and sigh,
Sigh, hapless Glocester, for thy sudden loss:
Pale death, alas, hath banish'd all thy pride,
Thy wedlock-vows! How oft have I beheld
Thy eyes, thy looks, thy lips, and every part,
How nature strove in them to show her art.
In shine, in shape, in colour, and compare!
But now hath death, the enemy of love,
Stain'd and deform'd the shine, the shape, the red,
With pale and dimness, and my love is dead.
Ah, dead, my love! vile wretch, why am I living?
So willeth fates, and I must be contented:
All pomp in time must fade, and grow to nothing.
Wept I like Niobe, yet it profits nothing:
Then cease, my sighs, since I may not regain her,
And woe to wretched death that thus hath slain her!