Chastelard | Page 8

what. You praise me past all loves; And these men love me
little; 't is some fault, I think, to love me: even a fool's sweet fault. I
have your verse still beating in my head Of how the swallow got a wing
broken In the spring time, and lay upon his side Watching the rest fly
off i' the red leaf-time, And broke his heart with grieving at himself
Before the snow came. Do you know that lord With sharp-set eyes? and
him with huge thewed throat? Good friends to me; I had need love
them well. Why do you look one way? I will not have you Keep your

eyes here: 't is no great wit in me To care much now for old French
friends of mine.-- Come, a fresh measure; come, play well for me, Fair
sirs, your playing puts life in foot and heart.--
DARNLEY. Lo you again, sirs, how she laughs and leans, Holding him
fast--the supple way she hath! Your queen hath none such; better as she
is For all her measures, a grave English maid, Than queen of snakes
and Scots.
RANDOLPH. She is over fair To be so sweet and hurt not. A good
knight; Goodly to look on.
MURRAY. Yea, a good sword too, And of good kin; too light of loving
though; These jangling song-smiths are keen love-mongers, They snap
at all meats.
DARNLEY. What! by God I think, For all his soft French face and
bright boy's sword, There be folks fairer: and for knightliness, These
hot-lipped brawls of Paris breed sweet knights-- Mere stabbers for a
laugh across the wine.--
QUEEN. There, I have danced you down for once, fair lord; You look
pale now. Nay then for courtesy I must needs help you; do not bow
your head, I am tall enough to reach close under it.
[Kisses him.]
Now come, we'll sit and see this passage through.--
DARNLEY. A courtesy, God help us! courtesy-- Pray God it wound
not where it should heal wounds. Why, there was here last year some
lord of France (Priest on the wrong side as some folk are prince) Told
tales of Paris ladies--nay, by God, No jest for queen's lips to catch
laughter of That would keep clean; I wot he made good mirth, But she
laughed over sweetly, and in such wise-- But she laughed over sweetly,
and in such wise-- Nay, I laughed too, but lothly.--
QUEEN. How they look! The least thing courteous galls them to the
bone. What would one say now I were thinking of?
CHASTELARD. It seems, some sweet thing.
QUEEN. True, a sweet one, sir-- That madrigal you made Alys de
Saulx Of the three ways of love: the first kiss honor, The second pity,
and the last kiss love. Which think you now was that I kissed you with?
CHASTELARD. It should be pity, if you be pitiful; For I am past all
honoring that keep Outside the eye of battle, where my kin Fallen
overseas have found this many a day No helm of mine between them;

and for love, I think of that as dead men of good days Ere the wrong
side of death was theirs, when God Was friends with them.
QUEEN. Good; call it pity then. You have a subtle riddling skill at love
Which is not like a lover. For my part, I am resolved to be well done
with love, Though I were fairer-faced than all the world; As there be
fairer. Think you, fair my knight, Love shall live after life in any man?
I have given you stuff for riddles.
CHASTELARD. Most sweet queen, They say men dying remember,
with sharp joy And rapid reluctation of desire, Some old thin, some
swift breath of wind, some word, Some sword-stroke or dead lute-strain,
some lost sight, Some sea-blossom stripped to the sun and burned At
naked ebb--some river-flower that breathes Against the stream like a
swooned swimmer's mouth-- Some tear or laugh ere lip and eye were
man's-- Sweet stings that struck the blood in riding--nay, Some garment
or sky-color or spice-smell, And die with heart and face shut fast on it,
And know not why, and weep not; it may be Men shall hold love fast
always in such wise In new fair lives where all are new things else, And
know not why, and weep not.
QUEEN. A right rhyme, And right a thyme's worth: nay, a sweet song,
though. What, shall my cousin hold fast that love of his, Her face and
talk, when life ends? as God grant His life end late and sweet; I love
him well. She is fair enough, his lover; a fair-faced maid, With gray
sweet eyes and tender touch of talk; And that, God wot, I