POLE. Ah, cousin, I remember How I would dandle you upon my knee At lisping-age. I watch'd you dancing once With your huge father; he look'd the Great Harry, You but his cockboat; prettily you did it, And innocently. No--we were not made One flesh in happiness, no happiness here; But now we are made one flesh in misery; Our bridemaids are not lovely--Disappointment, Ingratitude, Injustice, Evil-tongue, Labour-in-vain. MARY. Surely, not all in vain. Peace, cousin, peace! I am sad at heart myself. POLE. Our altar is a mound of dead men's clay, Dug from the grave that yawns for us beyond; And there is one Death stands behind the Groom, And there is one Death stands behind the Bride-- MARY. Have you been looking at the 'Dance of Death'? POLE. No; but these libellous papers which I found Strewn in your palace. Look you here--the Pope Pointing at me with 'Pole, the heretic, Thou hast burnt others, do thou burn thyself, Or I will burn thee;' and this other; see!-- 'We pray continually for the death Of our accursed Queen and Cardinal Pole.' This last--I dare not read it her. [_Aside_. MARY. Away! Why do you bring me these? I thought you knew better. I never read, I tear them; they come back upon my dreams. The hands that write them should be burnt clean off As Cranmer's, and the fiends that utter them Tongue-torn with pincers, lash'd to death, or lie Famishing in black cells, while famish'd rats Eat them alive. Why do they bring me these? Do you mean to drive me mad? POLE. I had forgotten How these poor libels trouble you. Your pardon, Sweet cousin, and farewell! 'O bubble world, Whose colours in a moment break and fly!' Why, who said that? I know not--true enough! [_Puts up the papers, all but the last, which falls. Exit_ POLE. ALICE. If Cranmer's spirit were a mocking one, And heard these two, there might be sport for him. [_Aside_. MARY. Clarence, they hate me; even while I speak There lurks a silent dagger, listening In some dark closet, some long gallery, drawn, And panting for my blood as I go by. LADY CLARENCE. Nay, Madam, there be loyal papers too, And I have often found them. MARY. Find me one! LADY CLARENCE. Ay, Madam; but Sir Nicholas Heath, the Chancellor, Would see your Highness. MARY. Wherefore should I see him? LADY CLARENCE. Well, Madam, he may bring you news from Philip. MARY. So, Clarence. LADY CLARENCE. Let me first put up your hair; It tumbles all abroad. MARY. And the gray dawn Of an old age that never will be mine Is all the clearer seen. No, no; what matters? Forlorn I am, and let me look forlorn. _Enter_ SIR NICHOLAS HEATH. HEATH. I bring your Majesty such grievous news I grieve to bring it. Madam, Calais is taken. MARY. What traitor spoke? Here, let my cousin Pole Seize him and burn him for a Lutheran. HEATH. Her Highness is unwell. I will retire.