ELIZABETH. Right honest and red-cheek'd; Robin was violent, And she was crafty--a sweet violence, And a sweet craft. I would I were a milkmaid, To sing, love, marry, churn, brew, bake, and die, Then have my simple headstone by the church, And all things lived and ended honestly. I could not if I would. I am Harry's daughter: Gardiner would have my head. They are not sweet, The violence and the craft that do divide The world of nature; what is weak must lie; The lion needs but roar to guard his young; The lapwing lies, says 'here' when they are there. Threaten the child; 'I'll scourge you if you did it:' What weapon hath the child, save his soft tongue, To say 'I did not?' and my rod's the block. I never lay my head upon the pillow But that I think, 'Wilt thou lie there to-morrow?' How oft the falling axe, that never fell, Hath shock'd me back into the daylight truth That it may fall to-day! Those damp, black, dead Nights in the Tower; dead--with the fear of death Too dead ev'n for a death-watch! Toll of a bell, Stroke of a clock, the scurrying of a rat Affrighted me, and then delighted me, For there was life--And there was life in death-- The little murder'd princes, in a pale light, Rose hand in hand, and whisper'd, 'come away! The civil wars are gone for evermore: Thou last of all the Tudors, come away! With us is peace!' The last? It was a dream; I must not dream, not wink, but watch. She has gone, Maid Marian to her Robin--by and by Both happy! a fox may filch a hen by night, And make a morning outcry in the yard; But there's no Renard here to 'catch her tripping.' Catch me who can; yet, sometime I have wish'd That I were caught, and kill'd away at once Out of the flutter. The gray rogue, Gardiner, Went on his knees, and pray'd me to confess In Wyatt's business, and to cast myself Upon the good Queen's mercy; ay, when, my Lord? God save the Queen! My jailor-- _Enter_ SIR HENRY BEDINGFIELD. BEDINGFIELD. One, whose bolts, That jail you from free life, bar you from death. There haunt some Papist ruffians hereabout Would murder you. ELIZABETH. I thank you heartily, sir, But I am royal, tho' your prisoner, And God hath blest or cursed me with a nose-- Your boots are from the horses. BEDINGFIELD. Ay, my Lady. When next there comes a missive from the Queen It shall be all my study for one hour To rose and lavender my horsiness, Before I dare to glance upon your Grace. ELIZABETH. A missive from the Queen: last time she wrote, I had like to have lost my life: it takes my breath: O God, sir, do you look upon your boots, Are you so small a man? Help me: what think you, Is it life or death. BEDINGFIELD. I thought not on my boots; The devil take all boots were ever made Since man went barefoot. See, I lay it here, For I will come no nearer to your Grace; [_Laying down the letter_. And, whether it bring you bitter news or sweet, And God hath given your Grace a nose, or not, I'll help you, if I may.