LADY CLARENCE. Madam, your Chancellor, Sir Nicholas Heath. MARY. Sir Nicholas! I am stunn'd--Nicholas Heath? Methought some traitor smote me on the head. What said you, my good Lord, that our brave English Had sallied out from Calais and driven back The Frenchmen from their trenches? HEATH. Alas! no. That gateway to the mainland over which Our flag hath floated for two hundred years Is France again. MARY. So; but it is not lost-- Not yet. Send out: let England as of old Rise lionlike, strike hard and deep into The prey they are rending from her--ay, and rend The renders too. Send out, send out, and make Musters in all the counties; gather all From sixteen years to sixty; collect the fleet; Let every craft that carries sail and gun Steer toward Calais. Guisnes is not taken yet? HEATH. Guisnes is not taken yet. MARY. There yet is hope. HEATH. Ah, Madam, but your people are so cold; I do much fear that England will not care. Methinks there is no manhood left among us. MARY. Send out; I am too weak to stir abroad: Tell my mind to the Council--to the Parliament: Proclaim it to the winds. Thou art cold thyself To babble of their coldness. O would I were My father for an hour! Away now--Quick! [_Exit_ HEATH. I hoped I had served God with all my might! It seems I have not. Ah! much heresy Shelter'd in Calais. Saints I have rebuilt Your shrines, set up your broken images; Be comfortable to me. Suffer not That my brief reign in England be defamed Thro' all her angry chronicles hereafter By loss of Calais. Grant me Calais. Philip, We have made war upon the Holy Father All for your sake: what good could come of that? LADY CLARENCE. No, Madam, not against the Holy Father; You did but help King Philip's war with France, Your troops were never down in Italy. MARY. I am a byword. Heretic and rebel Point at me and make merry. Philip gone! And Calais gone! Time that I were gone too! LADY CLARENCE. Nay, if the fetid gutter had a voice And cried I was not clean, what should I care? Or you, for heretic cries? And I believe, Spite of your melancholy Sir Nicholas, Your England is as loyal as myself. MARY (_seeing the paper draft by_ POLE). There! there! another paper! Said you not Many of these were loyal? Shall I try If this be one of such? LADY CLARENCE. Let it be, let it be. God pardon me! I have never yet found one. [_Aside_. MARY (_reads_). 'Your people hate you as your husband hates you.' Clarence, Clarence, what have I done? what sin Beyond all grace, all pardon? Mother of God, Thou knowest never woman meant so well, And fared so ill in this disastrous world. My people hate me and desire my death. LADY CLARENCE. No, Madam, no. MARY. My husband hates me, and desires my death. LADY CLARENCE. No, Madam; these are libels. MARY. I hate myself, and I desire my death.