Mary Seyton. He thinks by chafing of her blood less limbs To quicken the numbed life to sense again That keeps the life up current in the blood 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 And good of heart; and even by this her brain, 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. Queen. I think I shall not, surely, by God's grace; Yet no man knows of God when he will bring 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 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 Now we are old, delights are first to die Before the things that breed them. Mary Seyton (aside). Mary Beaton. I do remember. She roams yet. Yea, I knew it; one day We wrangled for a rose' sake and fell out 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, With babbling lips unpurged and graceless heart That holy lord I bade be not far off While I lay sick-I have not here his name— And ere the natural night lay hold on it 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 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 To lighten my last passage out of sight. For this world's works, I have done with them this day, Of their born king, and by my brother's mouth To give again, what stay of spirit and strength |