MARY HAMILTON.

Why, have you seen her sorrowful to-night?

MURRAY.

I say not so much; blithe she seems at whiles, Gentle and goodly doubtless in all ways, But hardly with such lightness and quick heart As it was said.

MARY HAMILTON.

'Tis your great care of her Makes you misdoubt; nought else.

MURRAY.

Yea, may be so; She has no cause I know to sadden her.

[They pass.]

QUEEN.

I am tired too soon; I could have danced down hours Two years gone hence and felt no wearier.

One grows much older northwards, my fair lord; I wonder men die south; meseems all France Smells sweet with living, and bright breath of days That keep men far from dying. Peace; pray you now, No dancing more. Sing, sweet, and make us mirth; We have done with dancing measures: sing that song You call the song of love at ebb.

MARY BEATON.

[Sings.]

1.

Between the sunset and the sea My love laid hands and lips on me; Of sweet came sour, of day came night, Of long desire came brief delight: Ah love, and what thing came of thee Between the sea-downs and the sea?

2.

Between the sea-mark and the sea Joy grew to grief, grief grew to me; Love turned to tears, and tears to fire, And dead delight to new desire; Love's talk, love's touch there seemed to be Between the sea-sand and the sea.

3.

Between the sundown and the sea Love watched one hour of love with me; Then down the all-golden water-ways His feet flew after yesterday's; I saw them come and saw them flee Between the sea-foam and the sea.

4.

Between the sea-strand and the sea Love fell on sleep, sleep fell on me; The first star saw twain turn to one Between the moonrise and the sun; The next, that saw not love, saw me Between the sea-banks and the sea.

QUEEN.

Lo, sirs, What mirth is here! Some song of yours, fair lord; You know glad ways of rhyming--no such tunes As go to tears.

CHASTELARD.

I made this yesterday; For its love's sake I pray you let it live.

1.

Apres tant de jours, apres tant de pleurs, Soyez secourable a mon ame en peine.

Voyez comme Avril fait l'amour aux fleurs; Dame d'amour, dame aux belles couleurs, Dieu vous a fait belle, Amour vous fait reine.

2.

Rions, je t'en prie; aimons, je le veux.

Le temps fuit et rit et ne revient guere Pour baiser le bout de tes blonds cheveux, Pour baiser tes cils, ta bouche et tes yeux; L'amour n'a qu'un jour aupres de sa mere.

QUEEN.

'T is a true song; love shall not pluck time back Nor time lie down with love. For me, I am old; Have you no hair changed since you changed to Scot?

I look each day to see my face drawn up About the eyes, as if they sucked the cheeks.

I think this air and face of things here north Puts snow at flower-time in the blood, and tears Between the sad eyes and the merry mouth In their youth-days.

CHASTELARD.

It is a bitter air.

QUEEN.

Faith, if I might be gone, sir, would I stay?

I think, for no man's love's sake.

CHASTELARD.

I think not.

QUEEN.

Do you yet mind at landing how the quay Looked like a blind wet face in waste of wind And washing of wan waves? how the hard mist Made the hills ache? your songs lied loud, my knight, They said my face would burn off cloud and rain Seen once, and fill the crannied land with fire, Kindle the capes in their blind black-gray hoods-- I know not what. You praise me past all loves; And these men love me little; 't is some fault, I think, to love me: even a fool's sweet fault.

I have your verse still beating in my head Of how the swallow got a wing broken In the spring time, and lay upon his side Watching the rest fly off i' the red leaf-time, And broke his heart with grieving at himself Before the snow came. Do you know that lord With sharp-set eyes? and him with huge thewed throat?

Good friends to me; I had need love them well.

Why do you look one way? I will not have you Keep your eyes here: 't is no great wit in me To care much now for old French friends of mine.-- Come, a fresh measure; come, play well for me, Fair sirs, your playing puts life in foot and heart.--

DARNLEY.

Lo you again, sirs, how she laughs and leans, Holding him fast--the supple way she hath!

Your queen hath none such; better as she is For all her measures, a grave English maid, Than queen of snakes and Scots.

RANDOLPH.

She is over fair To be so sweet and hurt not. A good knight; Goodly to look on.

MURRAY.

Yea, a good sword too, And of good kin; too light of loving though; These jangling song-smiths are keen love-mongers, They snap at all meats.

DARNLEY.

What! by God I think, For all his soft French face and bright boy's sword, There be folks fairer: and for knightliness, These hot-lipped brawls of Paris breed sweet knights-- Mere stabbers for a laugh across the wine.--

QUEEN.

There, I have danced you down for once, fair lord; You look pale now. Nay then for courtesy I must needs help you; do not bow your head, I am tall enough to reach close under it.

[Kisses him.]

Now come, we'll sit and see this passage through.--

DARNLEY.

A courtesy, God help us! courtesy-- Pray God it wound not where it should heal wounds.

Why, there was here last year some lord of France (Priest on the wrong side as some folk are prince) Told tales of Paris ladies--nay, by God, No jest for queen's lips to catch laughter of That would keep clean; I wot he made good mirth, But she laughed over sweetly, and in such wise-- But she laughed over sweetly, and in such wise-- Nay, I laughed too, but lothly.--

QUEEN.

How they look!

The least thing courteous galls them to the bone.

What would one say now I were thinking of?

CHASTELARD.

It seems, some sweet thing.