MARY CARMICHAEL. This will not sadden you to sing; your song Tastes sharp of sea and the sea's 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.