SCENE III — The Terrace of Dunley Tower
Lord Dunley and M ICHAEL Zebra .
D UN . Michael the Marvellous! Wold you know already,
Even to her Grace's posset!
Z EB . Vail your eyes!
No mortal sops for her! Is not her porridge
Made of star-dust and milk o' the Milky Way,
Brought down by Charles' Wain express for her,
With all the bravery of its harness on,
Cut out of light, with studs and buttons of glory,
And all for her Grace — great She of Wold — Duchess
In her own right? The cloudy fringe of fable
To history's web's all flourished o'er with Wold!
Yonder's the sun, shear me a sheaf o' his rays
For rushes to Madam's feet: Queen Mab to strew them!
But now for Me the Marvellous: — All my spells
Are simply Martin — Martin's our man, my Lord:
I've fixed him ours: He scorns, and would throw up
His present place, but that he waits to see
Dunley the Lord of Wold.
D UN . Small chance there, Michael
Z EB . Mervyn, say I, then Wold.
D UN . As how?
Z EB . W IVE , S TRIVE , T HRIVE : There's the true philosophy of marriage; and as everything about it is accommodation, it clinks even triple in my rhyme. Under favour, were Dunley Lord of Mervyn, wouldn't he have a new wish, and so find a new way, to be Lord of Wold? For greatness grows from itself. Wold would come to us the sooner, if it leapt from the horns of the Altar. Isn't that very handsome logic? Not to speak of the kind old canon to people the earth.
Wed's the word. And who so fair as my Lord's cousin of Mervyn?
D UN . My heart lies all that way, but Gloster's ghost
Stands in my path: he was her father's friend,
And I'm his murderer — so she thinks and says,
And spurns my suit; though I was but the doer
Of the King's will in that. And now, what boots it
That I'm next heir to Mervyn, after her?
She's young, she'll marry. As for Wold, there also
I'm next of kin; remote, 'tis true, yet heir,
Failing Lord Thomas. But he too may wed.
Even should he not, scarce is he middle-aged.
Z EB . Forty's the key-stone of our arched span,
He's over that. As for love, name it not;
O no, nor marriage: He is not your man
For that soft sort of thing. Look how he turns
The sharp, quick, lively corners of human nature,
Like a mail-plated, jointless crocodile,
All in one lumbering piece. The pert Old Adam
Within us has enjoyed his peccadillo
Afresh at the end o' the dovecot, and is off
Laughing and capering in his nimble eld,
Ere stiff, slow Thomas of Wold can heave himself
Round into view. Marry? Not he, indeed.
He's maidenly modest too: he'd blush young red,
To have it named to him.
D UN . We'll give him work
Weightier than blushing! He has thwarted me:
I'll pay him back!
Z EB . To-day he's coming home
From his French wars. We'll keep an eye on him,
And see how he wears.
D UN . Let Martin have our favour.
Lord Dunley and M ICHAEL Zebra .
D UN . Michael the Marvellous! Wold you know already,
Even to her Grace's posset!
Z EB . Vail your eyes!
No mortal sops for her! Is not her porridge
Made of star-dust and milk o' the Milky Way,
Brought down by Charles' Wain express for her,
With all the bravery of its harness on,
Cut out of light, with studs and buttons of glory,
And all for her Grace — great She of Wold — Duchess
In her own right? The cloudy fringe of fable
To history's web's all flourished o'er with Wold!
Yonder's the sun, shear me a sheaf o' his rays
For rushes to Madam's feet: Queen Mab to strew them!
But now for Me the Marvellous: — All my spells
Are simply Martin — Martin's our man, my Lord:
I've fixed him ours: He scorns, and would throw up
His present place, but that he waits to see
Dunley the Lord of Wold.
D UN . Small chance there, Michael
Z EB . Mervyn, say I, then Wold.
D UN . As how?
Z EB . W IVE , S TRIVE , T HRIVE : There's the true philosophy of marriage; and as everything about it is accommodation, it clinks even triple in my rhyme. Under favour, were Dunley Lord of Mervyn, wouldn't he have a new wish, and so find a new way, to be Lord of Wold? For greatness grows from itself. Wold would come to us the sooner, if it leapt from the horns of the Altar. Isn't that very handsome logic? Not to speak of the kind old canon to people the earth.
Wed's the word. And who so fair as my Lord's cousin of Mervyn?
D UN . My heart lies all that way, but Gloster's ghost
Stands in my path: he was her father's friend,
And I'm his murderer — so she thinks and says,
And spurns my suit; though I was but the doer
Of the King's will in that. And now, what boots it
That I'm next heir to Mervyn, after her?
She's young, she'll marry. As for Wold, there also
I'm next of kin; remote, 'tis true, yet heir,
Failing Lord Thomas. But he too may wed.
Even should he not, scarce is he middle-aged.
Z EB . Forty's the key-stone of our arched span,
He's over that. As for love, name it not;
O no, nor marriage: He is not your man
For that soft sort of thing. Look how he turns
The sharp, quick, lively corners of human nature,
Like a mail-plated, jointless crocodile,
All in one lumbering piece. The pert Old Adam
Within us has enjoyed his peccadillo
Afresh at the end o' the dovecot, and is off
Laughing and capering in his nimble eld,
Ere stiff, slow Thomas of Wold can heave himself
Round into view. Marry? Not he, indeed.
He's maidenly modest too: he'd blush young red,
To have it named to him.
D UN . We'll give him work
Weightier than blushing! He has thwarted me:
I'll pay him back!
Z EB . To-day he's coming home
From his French wars. We'll keep an eye on him,
And see how he wears.
D UN . Let Martin have our favour.