Act V

SCENE I.--LONDON. HALL IN THE PALACE.

QUEEN, SIR NICHOLAS HEATH.

HEATH. Madam, I do assure you, that it must be look'd to: Calais is but ill-garrison'd, in Guisnes Are scarce two hundred men, and the French fleet Rule in the narrow seas. It must be look'd to, If war should fall between yourself and France; Or you will lose your Calais.

MARY. It shall be look'd to; I wish you a good morning, good Sir Nicholas: Here is the King. [Exit HEATH.

Enter PHILIP.

PHILIP. Sir Nicholas tells you true, And you must look to Calais when I go.

MARY. Go? must you go, indeed--again--so soon? Why, nature's licensed vagabond, the swallow, That might live always in the sun's warm heart, Stays longer here in our poor north than you:-- Knows where he nested--ever comes again.

PHILIP. And, Madam, so shall I.

MARY. O, will you? will you? I am faint with fear that you will come no more.

PHILIP. Ay, ay; but many voices call me hence.

MARY. Voices--I hear unhappy rumours--nay, I say not, I believe. What voices call you Dearer than mine that should be dearest to you? Alas, my Lord! what voices and how many?

PHILIP. The voices of Castille and Aragon, Granada, Naples, Sicily, and Milan,-- The voices of Franche-Comte, and the Netherlands, The voices of Peru and Mexico, Tunis, and Oran, and the Philippines, And all the fair spice-islands of the East.

MARY (admiringly). You are the mightiest monarch upon earth, I but a little Queen: and, so indeed, Need you the more.

PHILIP. A little Queen! but when I came to wed your majesty, Lord Howard, Sending an insolent shot that dash'd the seas Upon us, made us lower our kingly flag To yours of England.

MARY. Howard is all English! There is no king, not were he ten times king, Ten times our husband, but must lower his flag To that of England in the seas of England.

PHILIP. Is that your answer?

MARY. Being Queen of England, I have none other.

PHILIP. So.

MARY. But wherefore not Helm the huge vessel of your state, my liege, Here by the side of her who loves you most?

PHILIP. No, Madam, no! a candle in the sun Is all but smoke--a star beside the moon Is all but lost; your people will not crown me-- Your people are as cheerless as your clime; Hate me and mine: witness the brawls, the gibbets. Here swings a Spaniard--there an Englishman; The peoples are unlike as their complexion; Yet will I be your swallow and return-- But now I cannot bide.

MARY. Not to help me? They hate me also for my love to you, My Philip; and these judgments on the land-- Harvestless autumns, horrible agues, plague--

PHILIP. The blood and sweat of heretics at the stake Is God's best dew upon the barren field. Burn more!

MARY. I will, I will; and you will stay?

PHILIP. Have I not said? Madam, I came to sue Your