Becket and other playsTennyson, Alfred Tennyson, Baron
General
Becket and other plays
Tennyson, Alfred Tennyson, Baron
Drama; Thomas, à Becket, Saint, 1118?-1170 -- Drama
DORA.
Happy! What? Edgar? Is it so? Can it be?
They told me so. Yes, yes! I see it all now.
O she has fainted. Sister, Eva, sister!
He is yours again--he will love _you_ again;
I give him back to you again. Look up!
One word, or do but smile! Sweet, do you hear me?
[_Puts her hand on_ EVA'S _heart_.
There, there--the heart, O God!--the poor young heart
Broken at last--all still--and nothing left
To live for.
[_Falls on body of her sister_.
HAROLD.
Living ... dead ... She said 'all still.
Nothing to live for.'
She--she knows me--now ...
(_A pause_.)
She knew me from the first, she juggled with me,
She hid this sister, told me she was dead--
I have wasted pity on her--not dead now--
No! acting, playing on me, both of them.
_They_ drag the river for her! no, not they!
Playing on me--not dead now--a swoon--a scene--
Yet--how she made her wail as for the dead!
_Enter_ MILLY.
MILLY.
Pleäse, Mister 'Arold.
HAROLD (_roughly_).
Well?
MlLLY.
The owd man's coom'd ageän to 'issen, an' wants
To hev a word wi' ye about the marriage.
HAROLD.
The what?
MILLY.
The marriage.
HAROLD.
The marriage?
MILLY.
Yeäs, the marriage.
Granny says marriages be maäde i' 'eaven.
HAROLD.
She lies! They are made in Hell. Child, can't you see?
Tell them to fly for a doctor.
MILLY.
O law--yeäs, Sir!
I'll run fur 'im mysen. [_Exit_.
HAROLD.
All silent there,
Yes, deathlike! Dead? I dare not look: if dead,
Were it best to steal away, to spare myself,
And her too, pain, pain, pain?
My curse on all
This world of mud, on all its idiot gleams
Of pleasure, all the foul fatalities
That blast our natural passions into pains!
_Enter_ DOBSON.
DOBSON.
You, Master Hedgar, Harold, or whativer
They calls ye, for I warrants that ye goäs
By haäfe a scoor o' naämes--out o' the chaumber.
[_Dragging him past the body_.
HAROLD.
Not that way, man! Curse on your brutal strength!
I cannot pass that way.
DOBSON.
Out o' the chaumber!
I'll mash tha into nowt.
HAROLD.
The mere wild-beast!
DOBSON.
Out o' the chaumber, dang tha!
HAROLD.
Lout, churl, clown!
[_While they are shouting and struggling_ DORA
_rises and comes between them_.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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