Chastelard | Page 4

Algernon Charles Swinburne
bitterness, But small pain sticks on it.
MARY BEATON. Nay, it is sad; For either sorrow with the beaten lips
Sings not at all, or if it does get breath Sings quick and sharp like a
hard sort of mirth: And so this song does; or I would it did, That it
might please me better than it does.
MARY SEYTON. Well, as you choose then. What a sort of men
Crowd all about the squares!
MARY CARMICHAEL. Ay, hateful men; For look how many talking
mouths be there, So many angers show their teeth at us. Which one is
that, stooped somewhat in the neck, That walks so with his chin against
the wind, Lips sideways shut? a keen-faced man--lo there, He that
walks midmost.

MARY SEYTON. That is Master Knox. He carries all these folk within
his skin, Bound up as 't were between the brows of him Like a bad
thought; their hearts beat inside his; They gather at his lips like flies in
the sun, Thrust sides to catch his face.
MARY CARMICHAEL. Look forth; so--push The
window--further--see you anything?
MARY HAMILTON. They are well gone; but pull the lattice in, The
wind is like a blade aslant. Would God I could get back one day I think
upon: The day we four and some six after us Sat in that Louvre garden
and plucked fruits To cast love-lots with in the gathered grapes; This
way: you shut your eyes and reach and pluck, And catch a lover for
each grape you get. I got but one, a green one, and it broke Between my
fingers and it ran down through them.
MARY SEYTON. Ay, and the queen fell in a little wrath Because she
got so many, and tore off Some of them she had plucked unwittingly--
She said, against her will. What fell to you?
MARY BEATON. Me? nothing but the stalk of a stripped bunch With
clammy grape-juice leavings at the tip.
MARY CARMICHAEL. Ay, true, the queen came first and she won all;
It was her bunch we took to cheat you with. What, will you weep for
that now? for you seem As one that means to weep. God pardon me! I
think your throat is choking up with tears. You are not well, sweet, for
a lying jest To shake you thus much.
MARY BEATON. I am well enough: Give not your pity trouble for my
sake.
MARY SEYTON. If you be well sing out your song and laugh, Though
it were but to fret the fellows there.-- Now shall we catch her secret
washed and wet In the middle of her song; for she must weep If she
sing through.
MARY HAMILTON. I told you it was love; I watched her eyes all
through the masquing time Feed on his face by morsels; she must
weep.
MARY BEATON.
4. Le navire Passe et luit, Puis chavire A grand bruit; Et sur l'onde La
plus blonde Tete au monde Flotte et fuit.
5. Moi, je rame, Et l'amour, C'est ma flamme, Mon grand jour, Ma
chandelle Blanche et belle, Ma chapelle

De sejour.
6. Toi, mon ame Et ma foi, Sois, ma dame; Et ma loi; Sois ma mie,
Sois Marie, Sois ma vie, Toute a moi!
MARY SEYTON. I know the song; a song of Chastelard's, He made in
coming over with the queen. How hard it rained! he played that over
twice Sitting before her, singing each word soft, As if he loved the least
she listened to.
MARY HAMILTON. No marvel if he loved it for her sake; She is the
choice of women in the world; Is she not, sweet?
MARY BEATON. I have seen no fairer one.
MARY SEYTON. And the most loving: did you note last night How
long she held him with her hands and eyes, Looking a little sadly, and
at last Kissed him below the chin and parted so As the dance ended?
MARY HAMILTON. This was courtesy; So might I kiss my
singing-bird's red bill After some song, till he bit short my lip.
MARY SEYTON. But if a lady hold her bird anights To sing to her
between her fingers-ha? I have seen such birds.
MARY CARMICHAEL. O, you talk emptily; She is full of grace; and
marriage in good time Will wash the fool called scandal off men's lips.
MARY HAMILTON. I know not that; I know how folk would gibe If
one of us pushed courtesy so far. She has always loved love's fashions
well; you wot, The marshal, head friend of this Chastelard's, She used
to talk with ere he brought her here And sow their talk with little kisses
thick As roses in rose-harvest. For myself, I cannot see which side of
her that lurks, Which snares
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