CONSTANCE AND FREDERICK
Who wears the blood of holy centuries
In her fair palms and forehead; their blue curves
Royally written; nay this boy's soft lip
So red and fair by that imperial sign,
By your most gracious warrant; else I'll say
The name you had was bastarded, and you
Some wicked season's error.
Luc.Are you mad?
See, her mouth trembles, tears drop over it,
Her brows move: now, be silent!
Mas.Then I'll end!
I held this lady so past service, yea
Past man's approval or the keenest feet
Of his obedience: You're my kinswoman,
And the dear honour that I have of you
Hath borne some witness; now for her, I'll say
I would forget you, and unclothe my soul
Of its strong reverence and opinion
That makes you to me as the music is
To the dead eithern there, as the live smell
To some quick flower midways the lily-row.
So I hold you—well, I'd forget all this
To serve her; that was Lady Constance here,
When she was no mere German ornament
scrawled broad with some gold flourishes at top
Above some Austrian document to prove
Our lord a liar, some stale letter, says
To be just fingered by Pope Celestin
Before he tears it, tears her name and all,
In her fair palms and forehead; their blue curves
Royally written; nay this boy's soft lip
So red and fair by that imperial sign,
By your most gracious warrant; else I'll say
The name you had was bastarded, and you
Some wicked season's error.
Luc.Are you mad?
See, her mouth trembles, tears drop over it,
Her brows move: now, be silent!
Mas.Then I'll end!
I held this lady so past service, yea
Past man's approval or the keenest feet
Of his obedience: You're my kinswoman,
And the dear honour that I have of you
Hath borne some witness; now for her, I'll say
I would forget you, and unclothe my soul
Of its strong reverence and opinion
That makes you to me as the music is
To the dead eithern there, as the live smell
To some quick flower midways the lily-row.
So I hold you—well, I'd forget all this
To serve her; that was Lady Constance here,
When she was no mere German ornament
scrawled broad with some gold flourishes at top
Above some Austrian document to prove
Our lord a liar, some stale letter, says
To be just fingered by Pope Celestin
Before he tears it, tears her name and all,
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