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May yet be healed.—The king is just and
gracious, Though wicked counsels now pervert his will: These once cast off—
As adders cast their skins And keep their venom, so kings often change; Councils and counsellors hang on one another, Hiding the loathsome. . . , Like the base patchwork of a leper's rags. 130
The Youth. 0, still those dissonant thoughts!—List how
the music Grows on the enchanted air! And see, the
torches Restlessly flashing, and the crowd divided Like waves before an admiral's prow!
Give place To the Marshal of the Mask!
Room for the King!
The Youth. How glorious! See those thronging chariots Rolling, like painted clouds before the wind, Behind their solemn steeds: how some are
shaped Like curved shells dyed by the azure depths Of Indian seas; some like the new-born moon; And some like cars in which the Romans
(Canopied by Victory's eagle wings outspread)
The Capitolian.—See how gloriously
Nobles, and sons of nobles, patentees, 150
Monopolists, and stewards of this poor farm, On whose lean sheep sit the prophetic crows. Here is the pomp that strips the houseless
orphan, Here is the pride that breaks the desolate heart. These are the lilies glorious as Solomon, Who toil not, neither do they spin,—unless It be the webs they catch poor rogues withal. Here is the surfeit which, to them who earn The niggard wages of the earth, scarce leaves The tithe that will support them till they
Back to her cold hard bosom. Here is health Followed by grim disease, glory by shame, Waste by lame famine, wealth by squalid
want, And England's sin by England's punishment. And, as the effect pursues the cause foregone, Lo, giving substance to my words, behold At once the sign and the thing signified— A troop of cripples, beggars, and lean outcasts, Horsed upon stumbling jades, carted with dung, Dragged for a day from cellars and low cabins And rotten hiding-holes, to point the moral 171 Of this presentment, and bring up the rear Of painted pomp with misery!
I and thou ...
A Marshalsman. Place, give place!
Scene II. A Chamber in Whitehall. Enter the King, Queen, Laud, Lord Stbafford, Lord Cottington, and other Lords; Archy; also St. John, with some Gentlemen of the Inns of Court.
And, gentlemen, Call your poor Queen your debtor. Your quaint pageant 10
Rose on me like the figures of past years,
burthen, The careful weight, of this great monarchy. There, gentlemen, between the sovereign's
pleasure And that which it regards, no clamour lifts 20 Its proud interposition. In Paris ribald censurers dare not move - Their poisonous tongues against these sinless
sports; And Ms smile
Warms those who bask in it, as ours would do If . . . Take my heart's thanks: add them,
gentlemen, To those good words which, were he King of
Outweigh a despot's.—We humbly take our
leaves, Enriched by smiles which France can never buy. [Exeunt St. John and the Gentlemen of the Inns of Court.
King. My Lord Archbishop,
Mark you what spirit sits in St. John's eyes? Methinks it is too saucy for this presence.
Abcht. Yes, pray your Grace look: for, like an unsophisticated . . . sees everything upside down, you who are wise will discern the shadow of an idiot in lawn sleeves and a rochet setting springes to catch woodcocks in haymaking time. Poor Archy, whose owl-eyes are tempered to the error of his age, and because he is a fool, and by special ordinance of God forbidden ever to see himself as he is, sees now in that deep eye a blindfold devil sitting on the ball, and weighing words out between king and subjects. One scale is full of promises, and the other full of protestations: and then another devil creeps behind the first out of the dark windings [of a] pregnant lawyer's brain, and takes the bandage from the other's eyes, and throws a sword into the left-hand scale, for all the world like my Lord Essex's there.
Strafford. A rod in pickle for the Fool's back! 54
Archt. Aye, and some are now smiling whose tears will make the brine; for the Fool sees. . .
Strafford. Insolent! You shall have your coat turned and be whipped out of the palace for this.
Archy. When all the fools are whipped, and all the protestant writers, while the knaves are whipping the fools ever since a thief was set to catch a thief. If all turncoats were whipped out of palaces, poor Archy would be disgraced in good company. Let the knaves whip the fools,