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No, no,
Do not tempt me to throttle you on the gorge,
Or with my gauntlet crush your hollow breast,
Just when your knighthood is grown ripe and full
For lordship.

A Soldier. Is an honest yeoman's spear
Of no use at a need ? Take that.

Ah, dastard ! De Kaims. What, you are vulnerable! my

prisoner! Stephen. No, not yet. I disclaim it, and demand Death as a sovereign right unto a king Who 'sdains to yield to any but his peer, If not in title, yet in noble deeds, The Earl of Glocester. Stab to the hilt, De Kaims, For I will never by mean hands be led From this so famous field. Do you hear! Be quick!

[Trumpets. Enter the Earl of CHESTER

and Knights.

SCENE IV.-A Presence Chamber. Queen Maud in

a Chair of State, the Earls of GLOCESTER and CHESTER, Lords, Attendants.

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Maud. Glocester, no more.

I will behold that Boulogne: Set him before me. Not for the poor sake Of regal pomp and a vain-glorious hour, As thou with wary speech, yet near enough, Hast hinted.

Glocester. Faithful counsel have I given; If wary, for your Highness' benefit.

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Maud. The Heavens forbid that I should not

think so,

For by thy valour have I won this realm,
Which by thy wisdom I will ever keep.
To sage advisers let me ever bend
A meek attentive ear, so that they treat
Of the wide kingdom's rule and government,
Not trenching on our actions personal.
Advised, not school'd, I would be; and henceforth
Spoken to in clear, plain, and open terms,
Not side-ways sermon'd at.

Then, in plain terms,
Once more for the fallen king -

Your pardon, brother,
I would no more of that; for, as I said,
'Tis not for worldly pomp I wish to see
The rebel, but as dooming judge to give
A sentence something worthy of his guilt.
Glocester. If’t must be so, I'll bring him to your

Maud. A meaner summoner might do as well.
My Lord of Chester, is 't true what I hear
Of Stephen of Boulogne, our prisoner,
That he, as a fit penance for his crimes,
Eats wholesome, sweet, and palatable food
Off Glocester's golden dishes-drinks pure wine,
Lodges soft ?

Chester. More than that, my gracious Queen,
Has anger'd me. The noble Earl, methinks,
Full soldier as he is, and without peer
In counsel, dreams too much among his books.
It may read well, but sure 'tis out of date
To play the Alexander with Darius.

Maud. Truth! I think so. By Heavens, it shall

not last! Chester. It would amaze your Highness now to

How Glocester overstrains his courtesy
To that crime-loving rebel, that Boulogne-

Maud. That ingrate!

For whose vast ingratitude
To our late sovereign lord, your noble sire,
The generous Earl condoles in his mishaps,
And with a sort of lackeying friendliness
Talks off the mighty frowning from his brow,
Woos him to hold a duet in a smile,
Or, if it please him, play an hour at chess-

Maud. A perjured slave!

And for his perjury
Glocester has fit rewards—nay, I believe,
He sets his bustling household's wits at work
For flatteries to ease this Stephen's hours,
And make a heaven of his purgatory;
Adorning bondage with the pleasant gloss
Of feasts and music, and all idle shows
Of indoor pageantry; while syren whispers,
Predestined for his ear, 'scape as half-check'd
From lips the courtliest and the rubiest
Of all the realm, admiring of his deeds.

Maud. A frost upon his summer!

A queen's nod Can make his June December. Here he comes.

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N midmost Ind, beside Hydaspes cool,

There stood, or hover'd, tremulous in the air, A faery city, 'neath the potent rule Of Emperor Elfinan; famed ev'rywhere For love of mortal women, maidens fair, Whose lips were solid, wl ose soft hands were made Of a fit mould and beauty, ripe and rare,

To pamper his slight wooing, warm yet staid : He lov'd girls smooth as shades, but hated a mere


I“ This Poem was written pieces, and strange outbursts subject to future amendments of individual fancy and felici. and omissions; it was begun tous expressions in the ' Cap without a plan, and without and Bells,' though the general any prescribed laws for the extravagance of the poetry is supernatural machinery.” more suited to an Italian than CHARLES Brown.

to an English taste."— JEF“There are beautiful pas- FREY, Letter to the Editor, sages and lines of ineffable Aug. 1848. sweetness in these minor

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