MARY CARMICHAEL.

I think her cunning speech-- The soft and rapid shudder of her breath In talking--the rare tender little laugh-- The pitiful sweet sound like a bird's sigh When her voice breaks; her talking does it all.

MARY SEYTON.

I say, her eyes with those clear perfect brows: It is the playing of those eyelashes, The lure of amorous looks as sad as love, Plucks all souls toward her like a net.

MARY HAMILTON.

What, what!

You praise her in too lover-like a wise For women that praise women; such report Is like robes worn the rough side next the skin, Frets where it warms.

MARY SEYTON.

You think too much in French.

Enter DARNLEY.

Here comes your thorn; what glove against it now?

MARY HAMILTON.

O, God's good pity! this a thorn of mine?

It has not run deep in yet.

MARY CARMICHAEL.

I am not sure: The red runs over to your face's edge.

DARNLEY.

Give me one word; nay, lady, for love's sake; Here, come this way; I will not keep you; no.

--O my sweet soul, why do you wrong me thus?

MARY HAMILTON.

Why will you give me for men's eyes to burn?

DARNLEY.

What, sweet, I love you as mine own soul loves me; They shall divide when we do.

MARY HAMILTON.

I cannot say.

DARNLEY.

Why, look you, I am broken with the queen; This is the rancor and the bitter heart That grows in you; by God it is nought else.

Why, this last night she held me for a fool-- Ay, God wot, for a thing of stripe and bell.

I bade her make me marshal in her masque-- I had the dress here painted, gold and gray (That is, not gray but a blue-green like this)-- She tells me she had chosen her marshal, she, The best o' the world for cunning and sweet wit; And what sweet fool but her sweet knight, God help!

To serve her with that three-inch wit of his?

She is all fool and fiddling now; for me, I am well-pleased; God knows, if I might choose I would not be more troubled with her love.

Her love is like a briar that rasps the flesh, And yours is soft like flowers. Come this way, love; So, further in this window; hark you here.

Enter CHASTELARD.

MARY BEATON.

Good morrow, sir.

CHASTELARD.

Good morrow, noble lady.

MARY CARMICHAEL.

You have heard no news? what news?

CHASTELARD.

Nay, I have none.

That maiden-tongued male-faced Elizabeth Hath eyes unlike our queen's, hair not so soft, And lips no kiss of love's could bring to flower In such red wise as our queen's; save this news, I know none English.

MARY SEYTON.

Come, no news of her; For God's love talk still rather of our queen.

MARY BEATON.

God give us grace then to speak well of her.

You did right joyfully in our masque last night'

I saw you when the queen lost breath (her head Bent back, her chin and lips catching the air-- A goodly thing to see her) how you smiled Across her head, between your lips-no doubt You had great joy, sir. Did you not take note Once how one lock fell? that was good to see.

CHASTELARD.

Yea, good enough to live for.

MARY BEATON.

Nay, but sweet Enough to die. When she broke off the dance, Turning round short and soft-I never saw Such supple ways of walking as she has.

CHASTLELARD.

Why do you praise her gracious looks to me?

MARY BEATON.

Sir, for mere sport: but tell me even for love How much you love her.

CHASTELARD.

I know not: it may be If I had set mine eyes to find that out, I should not know it. She hath fair eyes: may be I love her for sweet eyes or brows or hair, For the smooth temples, where God touching her Made blue with sweeter veins the flower-sweet white Or for the tender turning of her wrist, Or marriage of the eyelid with the cheek; I cannot tell; or flush of lifting throat, I know not if the color get a name This side of heaven-no man knows; or her mouth, A flower's lip with a snake's lip, stinging sweet, And sweet to sting with: face that one would see And then fall blind and die with sight of it Held fast between the eyelids-oh, all these And all her body and the soul to that, The speech and shape and hand and foot and heart That I would die of-yea, her name that turns My face to fire being written-I know no whit How much I love them.

MARY BEATON.

Nor how she loves you back?

CHASTELARD.

I know her ways of loving, all of them: A sweet soft way the first is; afterward It burns and bites like fire; the end of that, Charred dust, and eyelids bitten through with smoke.

MARY BEATON.

What has she done for you to gird at her?

CHASTELARD.

Nothing. You do not greatly love her, you, Who do not-gird, you call it. I am bound to France; Shall I take word from you to any one?

So it be harmless, not a gird, I will.

MARY BEATON.

I doubt you will not go hence with your life.

CHASTELARD.