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Mary Seyton. He thinks by chafing of her blood

less limbs

To quicken the numbed life to sense again
That is as death now in her veins; but surely
I think the very spirit and sustenance

That keeps the life up current in the blood
Has left her as an empty house for death,
Entering, to take and hold it.

Mary Beaton.

I say, no;

She will not die of chance or weariness;

This fever caught of riding and hot haste

Being once burnt out, as else nought ails her, will not
Leave her strength tainted; she is manly made,

And good of heart; and even by this her brain,
We see, begins to settle; she will live.

Mary Carmichael. Pray God she may, and no time worse than this

Come through her death on us and all her land

Left lordless for men's swords to carve and share;

Pray God she die not.

Mary Beaton.

From my heart, amen!

God knows and you if I would have her die.

Mary Seyton. Would you give up your loving life

for hers?

Mary Beaton. I shall not die before her; nor, I

think,

Live long when she shall live not.

Mary Seyton.

A strange faith:

Who put this confidence in you? or is it

But love that so assures you to keep life

While she shall keep, and lose when she shall lose

For very love's sake?

Mary Beaton.

This I cannot tell,

Whence I do know it; but that I know it I know, And by no casual or conjectural proof

Not yet by test of reason; but I know it

Even as I know I breathe, see, hear, feed, speak,

And am not dead and senseless of the sun

That yet I look on: so assuredly.

I know I shall not die till she be dead.
Look, she is risen.

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Queen. I think I shall not, surely, by God's grace;

Yet no man knows of God when he will bring
His hour upon him. I am sick and weak,

And yet unsure if I be whole of mind.

I think I have been estranged from my right wits These some days back; I know not. Prithee tell me, Have I not slept? I know you who you are;

You were about me thus in our first days,

When days and nights were roseleaves that fell off

Without a wind or taint of chafing air

But passed with perfume from us, and their death
Had on it still the tender dew of birth.

We were so near the sweet warm wells of life

We lay and laughed in bosom of the dawn

And knew not if the noon had heat to burn
Or the evening rain to smite us; being grown tall,
Our heads were raised more near the fires of heaven
And bitter strength of storms; then we were glad,
Ay, glad and good. Is there yet one of you
Keeps in her mind what hovers now in mine,
That sweet strait span of islanded green ground
Where we played once, and set us flowers that died
Before even our delight in them was dead?

Now we are old, delights are first to die

Before the things that breed them.

Mary Seyton (aside).

Mary Beaton. I do remember.
Queen.

She roams yet.

Yea, I knew it; one day

We wrangled for a rose' sake and fell out
With tears and words protesting each 'twas she,
She 'twas that set it; and for very wrath

I plucked up my French lilies and set foot

On their gold heads, because you had chafed me,saying Those were her flowers who should be queen in France, And leave you being no queen your Scottish rose With simpler leaves ungilt and innocent

That smelt of homelier air; and I mind well

I rent the rose out of your hand and cast

Upon the river's running; and a thorn

Pierced through mine own hand, and I wept not then, But laughed for anger at you and glad heart

To have made you weep, being worsted. What light

things

Come back to the light brain that sickness shakes

And makes the heaviest thought that it can hold

No heavier than a leaf, or gossamer

That seems to link two leaves a minute, then

A breath unlinks them; so my thoughts are: nay,
And should not so; it may be I shall die,
And as a fool I would not pass away

With babbling lips unpurged and graceless heart
Unreconciled to mercy. Let me see

That holy lord I bade be not far off

While I lay sick-I have not here his name—
My head is tired, yet have I strength at heart
To say one word shall make me friends with God,
Commending to him in the hour of unripe death
The spirit so rent untimely from its house

And ere the natural night lay hold on it
Darkly divided from the light of life.

Pray him come to me.

Mary Beaton.

It is my lord of Ross

The

queen would see?

my

lord is at her hand.

Enter the BISHOP OF ROss.

Queen. Most reverend father, my soul's friend, you

see

How little queenlike I sit here at wait
Till God lay hand on me for life or death,
With pain for that gold garland of my head
Men call a crown, and for my body's robe
Am girt with mortal sickness: I would fain,
Before I set my face to look on death,

Mine eyes against his eyes, make straight the way,

My soul must travel with this flesh put off

At the dark door; I pray you for God's grace
Give me that holy help that is in you

To lighten my last passage out of sight.

For this world's works, I have done with them this day,
With mine own lips while yet their breath was warm
Commending to my lords the natural charge

Of their born king, and by my brother's mouth
To the English queen the wardship of her heir,
And by the ambassador's of France again
To his good mistress and my brother king
The care of mine unmothered child, who has
No better friends bequeathable than these:
And for this land have I besought them all,
Who may beseech of no man aught again,
That here may no man for his faith be wronged
Whose faith is one with mine that all my life
I have kept, and fear not in it now to die.
Bishop of Ross. Madam, what comfort God hath
given his priests

To give again, what stay of spirit and strength
May through their mean stablish the souls of men
To live or die unvexed of life or death,
Unwounded of the fear and fang of hell,
Doubt not to have; seeing though no man be good
But one is good, even God, yet in his eye
The man that keeps faith sealed upon his soul
Shall through the bloodshedding of Christ be clean.
And in this time of cursing and flawed faith
Have you kept faith unflawed, and on your head
The immediate blessing of the spouse of God.

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