King Edward the Third | Page 7

the upper turf of earth doth boast His pied perfumes
and party coloured coat, Delve there, and find this issue and their pride
To spring from ordure and corruption's side. But, to make up my all too
long compare, These ragged walls no testimony are, What is within;
but, like a cloak, doth hide >From weather's Waste the under garnished
pride. More gracious then my terms can let thee be, Intreat thy self to
stay a while with me.
KING EDWARD. As wise, as fair; what fond fit can be heard, When
wisdom keeps the gate as beauty's guard?-- It shall attend, while I
attend on thee: Come on, my Lords; here will I host to night.
[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE I. The Same. Gardens of the Castle.
[Enter Lodowick.]
LODOWICK. I might perceive his eye in her eye lost, His ear to drink
her sweet tongue's utterance, And changing passion, like inconstant
clouds That rack upon the carriage of the winds, Increase and die in his
disturbed cheeks. Lo, when she blushed, even then did he look pale, As
if her cheeks by some enchanted power Attracted had the cherry blood
from his: Anon, with reverent fear when she grew pale, His cheeks put
on their scarlet ornaments; But no more like her oriental red, Than
Brick to Coral or live things to dead. Why did he then thus counterfeit
her looks? If she did blush, twas tender modest shame, Being in the
sacred presence of a King; If he did blush, twas red immodest shame,
To veil his eyes amiss, being a king; If she looked pale, twas silly
woman's fear, To bear her self in presence of a king; If he looked pale,
it was with guilty fear, To dote amiss, being a mighty king. Then,
Scottish wars, farewell; I fear twill prove A lingering English siege of
peevish love. Here comes his highness, walking all alone.
[Enter King Edward.]
KING EDWARD. She is grown more fairer far since I came hither, Her
voice more silver every word than other, Her wit more fluent. What a
strange discourse Unfolded she of David and his Scots! 'Even thus',
quoth she, 'he spake', and then spoke broad, With epithites and accents
of the Scot, But somewhat better than the Scot could speak: 'And thus',
quoth she, and answered then her self-- For who could speak like her
but she her self-- Breathes from the wall an Angel's note from Heaven
Of sweet defiance to her barbarous foes. When she would talk of peace,
me thinks, her tongue Commanded war to prison; when of war, It
wakened Caesar from his Roman grave, To hear war beautified by her
discourse. Wisdom is foolishness but in her tongue, Beauty a slander
but in her fair face, There is no summer but in her cheerful looks, Nor
frosty winter but in her disdain. I cannot blame the Scots that did
besiege her, For she is all the Treasure of our land; But call them
cowards, that they ran away, Having so rich and fair a cause to stay.--
Art thou there, Lodowick? Give me ink and paper.
LODOWICK. I will, my liege.
KING EDWARD. And bid the Lords hold on their play at Chess, For
we will walk and meditate alone.

LODOWICK. I will, my sovereign.
[Exit Lodowick.]
KING EDWARD. This fellow is well read in poetry, And hath a lusty
and persuasive spirit; I will acquaint him with my passion, Which he
shall shadow with a veil of lawn, Through which the Queen of beauties
Queen shall see Her self the ground of my infirmity.
[Enter Lodowick.]
KING EDWARD. hast thou pen, ink, and paper ready, Lodowick?
LODOWICK. Ready, my liege.
KING EDWARD. Then in the summer arbor sit by me, Make it our
counsel house or cabinet: Since green our thoughts, green be the
conventicle, Where we will ease us by disburdening them. Now,
Lodowick, invocate some golden Muse, To bring thee hither an
enchanted pen, That may for sighs set down true sighs indeed, Talking
of grief, to make thee ready groan; And when thou writest of tears,
encouch the word Before and after with such sweet laments, That it
may raise drops in a Tartar's eye, And make a flintheart Scythian pitiful;
For so much moving hath a Poet's pen: Then, if thou be a Poet, move
thou so, And be enriched by thy sovereign's love. For, if the touch of
sweet concordant strings Could force attendance in the ears of hell,
How much more shall the strains of poets' wit Beguile and ravish soft
and humane minds?
LODOWICK. To whom, my Lord, shall I direct my stile?
KING EDWARD. To one that shames the fair and sots the wise;
Whose bod is an abstract or a brief, Contains each general