Why, who should slay me? No man northwards born, In my poor mind; my sword's lip is no maid's To fear the iron biting of their own, Though they kiss hard for hate's sake.

MARY BEATON.

Lo you, sir, How sharp he whispers, what close breath and eyes-- And here are fast upon him, do you see?

CHASTELARD.

Well, which of these must take my life in hand?

Pray God it be the better: nay, which hand?

MARY BEATON.

I think, none such. The man is goodly made; She is tender-hearted toward his courtesies, And would not have them fall too low to find.

Look, they slip forth.

[Exeunt DARNLEY and MARY HAMILTON.]

MARY SEYTON.

For love's sake, after them, And soft as love can.

[Exeunt MARY CARMICHAEL and MARY SEYTON.]

CHASTELARD.

True, a goodly man.

What shapeliness and state he hath, what eyes, Brave brow and lordly lip! Were it not fit Great queens should love him?

MARY BEATON.

See how now, fair lord, I have but scant breath's time to help myself, And I must cast my heart out on a chance; So bear with me. That we twain have loved well, I have no heart nor wit to say; God wot We had never made good lovers, you and I.

Look you, I would not have you love me, sir, For all the love's sake in the world. I say, You love the queen, and loving burns you up, And mars the grace and joyous wit you had, Turning your speech to sad, your face to strange, Your mirth to nothing: and I am piteous, I, Even as the queen is, and such women are; And if I helped you to your love-longing, Meseems some grain of love might fall my way And love's god help me when I came to love; I have read tales of men that won their loves On some such wise.

CHASTELARD.

If you mean mercifully, I am bound to you past thought and thank; if worse I will but thank your lips and not your heart.

MARY BEATON.

Nay, let love wait and praise me, in God's name, Some day when he shall find me; yet, God wot, My lips are of one color with my heart.

Withdraw now from me, and about midnight In some close chamber without light or noise It may be I shall get you speech of her: She loves you well: it may be she will speak, I wot not what; she loves you at her heart.

Let her not see that I have given you word, Lest she take shame and hate her love. Till night Let her not see it.

CHASTLELARD.

I will not thank you now, And then I'll die what sort of death you will.

Farewell.

[Exit.]

MARY BEATON.

And by God's mercy and my love's I will find ways to earn such thank of you.

[Exit.]

ACT I. SCENE II. A Hall in the same.

The QUEEN, DARNLEY, MURRAY, RANDOLPH, the MARIES, CHASTELARD, &c.

QUEEN.

Hath no man seen my lord of Chastelard?

Nay, no great matter. Keep you on that side: Begin the purpose.

MARY CARMICHAEL.

Madam, he is here.

QUEEN.

Begin a measure now that other side.

I will not dance; let them play soft a little.

Fair sir, we had a dance to tread to-night, To teach our north folk all sweet ways of France, But at this time we have no heart to it.

Sit, sir, and talk. Look, this breast-clasp is new, The French king sent it me.

CHASTELARD.

A goodly thing: But what device? the word is ill to catch.

QUEEN.

A Venus crowned, that eats the hearts of men: Below her flies a love with a bat's wings, And strings the hair of paramours to bind Live birds' feet with. Lo what small subtle work: The smith's name, Gian Grisostomo da--what?

Can you read that? The sea froths underfoot; She stands upon the sea and it curls up In soft loose curls that run to one in the wind.

But her hair is not shaken, there 's a fault; It lies straight down in close-cut points and tongues, Not like blown hair. The legend is writ small: Still one makes out this--*Cave*--if you look.

CHASTELARD.

I see the Venus well enough, God wot, But nothing of the legend.

QUEEN.

Come, fair lord, Shall we dance now? My heart is good again.

[They dance a measure.]

DARNLEY.

I do not like this manner of a dance, This game of two by two; it were much better To meet between the changes and to mix Than still to keep apart and whispering Each lady out of earshot with her friend.

MARY BEATON.

That 's as the lady serves her knight, I think: We are broken up too much.

DARNLEY.

Nay, no such thing; Be not wroth, lady, I wot it was the queen Pricked each his friend out. Look you now--your ear-- If love had gone by choosing--how they laugh, Lean lips together, and wring hands underhand!

What, you look white too, sick of heart, ashamed, No marvel--for men call it--hark you though--

[They pass.]

MURRAY.

Was the queen found no merrier in France?