Rosamund | Page 4

loved him? Hers he had not slain. Would God I might
but die and burn in hell And know my love had loved me!
NARSETES.
Is thy name Babe? Sweet are babes as flowers that wed the sun, But
man may be not born a babe again, And less than man may woman.
Rosamund Stands radiant now in royal pride of place As wife of thine
and queen of Lombards--not Cunimund's daughter. Hadst thou slain her
sire Shamefully, shame were thine to have sought her hand And shame
were hers to love thee: but he died Manfully, by thy mightier hand than
his Manfully mastered. War, born blind as fire, Fed not as fire upon her:
many a maid As royal dies disrobed of all but shame And even to death
burnt up for shame's sake: she Lives, by thy grace, imperial.
ALBOVINE.

He or I, Her lord or sire, which hath most part in her, This hour shall
try between us.
Enter ROSAMUND.
ROSAMUND.
Royal lord, Thy wedded handmaid craves of thee a grace.
ALBOVINE.
My sovereign bids her bondman what she will.
ROSAMUND.
I bid thee mock me not: I may ask thee Aught, and be heard of any save
my lord.
ALBOVINE.
Go, friend. [Exit NARSETES.] Speak now. Say first what ails thee?
ROSAMUND.
Me?
ALBOVINE.
Thy voice was honey-hearted music, sweet As wine and glad as
clarions: not in battle Might man have more of joy than I to hear it And
feel delight dance in my heart and laugh Too loud for hearing save its
own. Thou rose, Why did God give thee more than all thy kin Whose
pride is perfume only and colour, this? Music? No rose but mine sings,
and the birds Hush all their hearts to hearken. Dost thou hear not How
heavy sounds her note now?
ROSAMUND.
Sire, not I. But sire I should not call thee.
ALBOVINE.
Surely, no. I bade thee speak: I did not bid thee sing: Thou canst not
speak and sing not.
ROSAMUND.
Albovine, I had at heart a simple thing to crave And thought not on thy
flatteries--as I think not Now. Knowest thou not my handmaid
Hildegard Free-born, a noble maiden?
ALBOVINE.
And a fair As ever shone like sundawn on the snows.
ROSAMUND.
I had at heart to plead for her with thee.
ALBOVINE.
Plead? hast thou found her noble maidenhood Ignobly turned

unmaidenlike? I may not Lightly believe it.
ROSAMUND.
Believe it not at all. Wouldst thou think shame of me--lightly? She
loves As might a maid whose kin were northern gods The fairest-faced
of warriors Lombard born, Thine Almachildes.
ALBOVINE.
If he loves not her, More fool is he than warrior even, though war Have
wakened laughter in his eyes, and left His golden hair fresh gilded,
when his hand Had won the crown that clasps a boy's brows close With
first-born sign of battle.
ROSAMUND.
No such fool May live in such a warrior; if he love not Some loveliness
not hers. No face as bright Crowned with so fair a Mayflower crown of
praise Lacked ever yet love, if its eyes were set With all their soul to
loveward.
ALBOVINE.
Ay?
ROSAMUND.
I know not A man so fair of face. I like him well. And well he hath
served and loves thee.
ALBOVINE.
Ay? The boy Seems winsome then with women.
ROSAMUND.
Hildegard Hath hearkened when he spake of love--it may be, Lightly.
ALBOVINE.
To her shall no man lightly speak. Thy maiden and our natural kin is
she. Wilt thou speak with him--lightly?
ROSAMUND.
If thou wilt, Gladly.
ALBOVINE.
The boy shall wait upon thy will. [Exit.]
ROSAMUND.
My heart is heavier than this heat that weighs With all the weight of
June on us. I know not Why. And the feast is close on us. I would This
night were now to-morrow morn. I know not Why.
Enter ALMACHILDES.
Ah! What would you?

ALMACHILDES.
Queen, our lord the king Bade me before thee hither.
ROSAMUND.
Truth: I know it. Thou art loved and honoured of our lord the king.
Dost thou, whom honour loves before thy time, Love?
ALMACHILDES
Ay: thy noble handmaid, Hildegard. I know not if she love me.
ROSAMUND.
Thou shalt know. But this thou knowest: I may not give thee her.
ALMACHILDES.
I would not take her from the Lord God's hand If hers were given
against her will to mine.
ROSAMUND.
A man said that: a manfuller than men Who grip the loveless hands of
prisoners. Well It must be with the bride whose happier hand Lies fond
and fast in thine. Our Hildegard, Being free and noble as Albovine and
we, Born one with us in race and blood, and thence Our equal in our
sole nobility, Must well be won by