Imaginary Conversations and Poems | Page 9

condoled with him, and wept upon his hand, holding the paper against my bosom. He took the corner of it between his fingers, and said, 'Read me this paper; read my death-warrant. Your silence and tears have signified it; yet the law has its forms. Do not keep me in suspense. My father says, too truly, I am not courageous; but the death that leads me to my God shall never terrify me.'
_Peter._ I have seen these white-livered knaves die resolutely; I have seen them quietly fierce like white ferrets with their watery eyes and tiny teeth. You read it?
_Chancellor._ In part, sire! When he heard your Majesty's name accusing him of treason and attempts at rebellion and parricide, he fell speechless. We raised him up: he was motionless; he was dead!
_Peter._ Inconsiderate and barbarous varlet as thou art, dost thou recite this ill accident to a father! and to one who has not dined! Bring me a glass of brandy.
_Chancellor._ And it please your Majesty, might I call a--a----
_Peter._ Away and bring it: scamper! All equally and alike shall obey and serve me.
Hark ye! bring the bottle with it: I must cool myself--and--hark ye! a rasher of bacon on thy life! and some pickled sturgeon, and some krout and caviare, and good strong cheese.
HENRY VIII AND ANNE BOLEYN
_Henry._ Dost thou know me, Nanny, in this yeoman's dress? 'Sblood! does it require so long and vacant a stare to recollect a husband after a week or two? No tragedy-tricks with me! a scream, a sob, or thy kerchief a trifle the wetter, were enough. Why, verily the little fool faints in earnest. These whey faces, like their kinsfolk the ghosts, give us no warning. Hast had water enough upon thee? Take that, then: art thyself again?
_Anne._ Father of mercies! do I meet again my husband, as was my last prayer on earth? Do I behold my beloved lord--in peace--and pardoned, my partner in eternal bliss? it was his voice. I cannot see him: why cannot I? Oh, why do these pangs interrupt the transports of the blessed?
_Henry._ Thou openest thy arms: faith! I came for that. Nanny, thou art a sweet slut. Thou groanest, wench: art in labour? Faith! among the mistakes of the night, I am ready to think almost that thou hast been drinking, and that I have not.
_Anne._ God preserve your Highness: grant me your forgiveness for one slight offence. My eyes were heavy; I fell asleep while I was reading. I did not know of your presence at first; and, when I did, I could not speak. I strove for utterance: I wanted no respect for my liege and husband.
_Henry._ My pretty warm nestling, thou wilt then lie! Thou wert reading, and aloud too, with thy saintly cup of water by thee, and--what! thou art still girlishly fond of those dried cherries!
_Anne._ I had no other fruit to offer your Highness the first time I saw you, and you were then pleased to invent for me some reason why they should be acceptable. I did not dry these: may I present them, such as they are? We shall have fresh next month.
_Henry._ Thou art always driving away from the discourse. One moment it suits thee to know me, another not.
_Anne._ Remember, it is hardly three months since I miscarried. I am weak, and liable to swoons.
_Henry._ Thou hast, however, thy bridal cheeks, with lustre upon them when there is none elsewhere, and obstinate lips resisting all impression; but, now thou talkest about miscarrying, who is the father of that boy?
_Anne._ Yours and mine--He who hath taken him to his own home, before (like me) he could struggle or cry for it.
_Henry._ Pagan, or worse, to talk so! He did not come into the world alive: there was no baptism.
_Anne._ I thought only of our loss: my senses are confounded. I did not give him my milk, and yet I loved him tenderly; for I often fancied, had he lived, how contented and joyful he would have made you and England.
_Henry._ No subterfuges and escapes. I warrant, thou canst not say whether at my entrance thou wert waking or wandering.
_Anne._ Faintness and drowsiness came upon me suddenly.
_Henry._ Well, since thou really and truly sleepedst, what didst dream of?
_Anne._ I begin to doubt whether I did indeed sleep.
_Henry._ Ha! false one--never two sentences of truth together! But come, what didst think about, asleep or awake?
_Anne._ I thought that God had pardoned me my offences, and had received me unto Him.
_Henry._ And nothing more?
_Anne._ That my prayers had been heard and my wishes were?accomplishing: the angels alone can enjoy more beatitude than this.
_Henry._ Vexatious little devil! She says nothing now about me, merely from perverseness. Hast thou never thought about me, nor about thy falsehood and adultery?
_Anne._ If I