A Select Collection of Old English Plays Volume Viii Part 60

BRUCE. Chester and Mowbray, you are John's sworn friends; Will you see more? speak, answer me, my lords.

I am no n.i.g.g.ard, you shall have your fill.

BOTH. We have too much, and surfeit with the woe.

BRUCE. Are you all full? there comes a ravening kite, That both at quick, at dead, at all will smite.

He shall, he must; ay, and by'r Lady, may Command me to give over holiday, And set wide open what you would not see.

KING. Why stand ye, lords, and see this traitor perch'd Upon our castle's battlements so proud?

Come down, young Bruce, set ope the castle-gates; Unto thy sov'reign let thy knee be bow'd, And mercy shall be given to thee and thine.

BRUCE. O miserable thing!

Comes mercy from the mouth of John our king?

Why then, belike, h.e.l.l will be pitiful.

I will not ope the gates--the gate I will; The gate where thy shame and my sorrow sits.

See my dead mother and her famish'd son!

[_Opens a cas.e.m.e.nt, showing the dead bodies within_.]

Open thy tyrant's eyes, for to the world I will lay open thy fell cruelties.

KING. We heard, indeed, thy mother and her son In prison died by wilful famishment.

BRUCE. Sin doubled upon sin! Slander'st thou the dead?

Unwilling willingness it shall appear, By then I have produc'd, as I will do, The just presumptions 'gainst your unjust act.

KING. a.s.sail the castle, lords! alarum, drums!

And drown this screech-owl's cries with your deep sounds.

LEI. I tell thee, drummer, if thy drum thou smite, By heav'n, I'll send thy soul to h.e.l.l's dark night.

Hence with thy drum! G.o.d's pa.s.sion, get thee hence!

Begone, I say; move not my patience.

[_Exit drum_.

KING. Are you advised, Leicester, what you do?

LEI. I am advised; for, my sovereign, know, There's not a lord here will lift up his arm Against the person of yon n.o.ble youth, Till you have heard the circ.u.mstantial truth, By good presumptions, touching this foul deed.

Therefore, go on, young Bruce; proceed, refel[369]

The allegation that puts in this doubt, Whether thy mother, through her wilfulness, Famish'd herself and her sweet son, or no.

BRUCE. Unlikely supposition: nature first denies That any mother, when her youngling cries, If she have means, is so unnatural To let it faint and starve. But we will prove She had no means, except this moanful mean, This torture of herself. Come forth, come forth, Sir William Blunt, whom slander says I slew: Come, tell the king and lords what you know true.

_Enter_ SIR WILLIAM BLUNT [_on the walls_.][370]

KING. Thou hast betray'd our castle.

BLUNT. No: G.o.d can tell, It was surpris'd by politic report, And affirmation that your grace was slain.

RICH. Go on, Sir William Blunt: Pa.s.s briefly to the lady's famishment.

BLUNT. About some ten days since there came one Brand, Bringing a signet from my lord the king, And this commission, signed with his hand, [_Lords look, and read the thing_.

Commanding me, as the contents express, That I should presently deliver up The Lady Bruce and her young son to him.

MOW. What time o' day was this?

BLUNT. It was, Lord Mowbray, somewhat past eleven, For we were even then sitting down to dine.

LEI. But did ye dine?

BLUNT. The lady and her son did not.

Brand would not stay.

BRUCE. No, Leicester, no; for here is no such sign Of any meat's digestion.

RICH. But, by the way, tell us, I pray you, Blunt, While she remain'd with you, was she distraught With grief, or any other pa.s.sions violent?

BLUNT. She now and then would weep, and often pray For reconcilement 'twixt the king and lords.

CHES. How to her son did she affected stand?

BLUNT. Affection could not any more affect; Nor might a mother show more mother's love.

MOW. How to my lord the king?

BLUNT. O my Lord G.o.d!

I never knew a subject love king more.

She never would blin[371] telling, how his grace Sav'd her young son from soldiers and from fire; How fair he spake, gave her her son to keep: And then, poor lady, she would kiss her boy, Pray for the king so hearty earnestly, That in pure zeal she wept most bitterly.

KING. I weep for her, and do by heaven protest, I honour'd Bruce's wife, howe'er that slave Rudely effected what I rashly will'd.

Yet when he came again, and I bethought What bitter penance I had put them to For my conceiv'd displeasure 'gainst old Bruce, I bad the villain post and bear them meat: Which he excus'd, protesting pity mov'd him To leave wine, bread, and other powder'd meat,[372]

More than they twain could in a fortnight eat.

BLUNT. Indeed, this can I witness with the king, Which argues in that point his innocence: Brand did bear in a month's provision, But lock'd it, like a villain, far from them; And lock'd them in a place, where no man's ear Might hear their lamentable woful moans; For all the issue, both of vent and light, Came from a loover[373] at the tower's top, Till now Lord Bruce made open this wide gap.

BRUCE. Had I not reason, think you, to make wide The window, that should let so much woe forth?

Where sits my mother, martyr'd by herself, Hoping to save her child from martyrdom?

Where stands my brother, martyr'd by himself, Because he would not taste his mother's blood?

For thus I gather this:--my mother's teeth and chin Are b.l.o.o.d.y with the savage cookery Which her soft heart, through pity of her son, Respectless made her practise on herself; And her right hand, with offering it the child, Is with her own pure blood stain'd and defil'd.

My little brother's lips and chin alone Are tainted with the blood; but his even teeth, Like orient pearl or snow-white ivory, Have not one touch of blood, one little spot: Which is an argument the boy would not Once stir his lips to taste that b.l.o.o.d.y food Our cruel-gentle mother minister'd: But as it seem'd (for see his pretty palm Is b.l.o.o.d.y too) he cast it on the ground, For on this side the blessed relics lie, By famine's rage divided from this shrine.

Sad woful mother in Jerusalem!

Who, when thy son and thou didst faint for food, Buried his sweet flesh in thy hungry womb, How merciless wert thou, if we compare Thy fact and this! For my poor lady mother Did kill herself to save my dying brother; And thou, ungentle son of Miriam, Why didst thou beg life when thy mother lack'd?

My little brother George did n.o.bly act A more courageous part: he would not eat, Nor beg to live. It seem'd he did not cry: Few tears stand on his cheek, smooth is each eye; But when he saw my mother bent to die, He died with her. O childish valiancy--

KING. Good Bruce, have done. My heart cannot contain The grief it holds: my eyes must show'r down rain.

LEI. Which showers are even as good As rain in harvest, or a swelling flood When neighbouring meadows lack the mower's scythe.

_A march for burial, with drum and fife. Enter_ OXFORD. MATILDA _borne with nuns, one carrying a white pendant--these words written in gold: "Amoris Cast.i.tatis et Honoris Honos." The_ QUEEN _following the bier, carrying a garland of flowers.

Set it in the midst of the stage_.