Abominate the deed of Gods commanded.
Alas! I came to pray, not to complain;
And lo! my speech is impious as my deed!

THE PRIESTESS OF APOLLO.

Take refuge here amid our Delphian shades,
O troubled breast!

Here the most pious of Mycenai's maids

Shall watch thy rest

And wave the cooling laurel o'er thy brow,
Nor insects swarm

Shall ever break thy slumbers, nor shalt thou
Start at the alarm

Of boys infesting (as they do) the street

With mocking songs,

Stopping and importuning all they meet,
And heaping wrongs

Upon thy diadem'd and sacred head,
Worse than when base

Egisthus (shudder not!) his toils outspread
Around thy race.

Altho' even in this fane the fitful blast

Thou may'st hear roar,

Thy name among our highest rocks shall last

For ever more.

Orestes. A calm comes over me: life brings it not

With any of its tides: my end is near.

O Priestess of the purifying god

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Receive her (pointing to his sister), and when she hath closed

mine eyes,

Do thou (weep not, my father's child!) close hers.

WALTER TYRREL AND WILLIAM RUFUS.

Rufus. Tyrrel, spur onward! we must not await
The laggard lords: when they have heard the dogs
I warrant they will follow fast enough,

Each for his haunch. Thy roan is mettlesome;
How the rogue sides up to me, and claims
Acquaintance with young Yorkshire! not afraid
Of wrinkling lip, nor ear laid down like grass
By summer thunder-shower on Windsor mead.
Tyrrel. Behold, my liege! hither they troop amain,
Over

yon gap.

Rufus.

Over my pales? the dolts

Please you, my liege,

Have broken down my pales!

Tyrrel.

Unless they had, they must have ridden round

Eleven miles.

Rufus.

ΙΟ

Why not have ridden round

At any time

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Eleven miles? or twenty, were there need.
By our Lady! they shall be our carpenters
And mend what they have marr'd.

I can make fifty lords; but who can make
As many head of deer, if mine escape?
And sure they will, unless they too are mad.
Call me that bishop him with hunting-cap
Surcharged with cross, and scarlet above knee.
Tyrrel (galloping forward.) Ho! my lord bishop!
Who calls me ?

Bishop.

Tyrrel.

Your slave.

Bishop. Well said, if toned as well and timed as well. Who art thou? citizen or hind? what wantest ?

Tyrrel. My lord; your presence; but before the king; 30

Where it may grow more placid at its leisure.
The morn is only streakt with red, my lord!
You beat her out and out: how prettily
You wear your stocking over head and ears!
Keep off the gorse and broom! they soon catch fire!
Bishop. The king shall hear of this: I recognise
Sir Walter Tyrrel.

Tyrrel.

And Sir Walter Tyrrel

By the same token duly recognises

The Church's well-begotten son, well-fed,
Well-mounted, and all well, except well-spoken,
The spiritual lord of Winchester.

Bishop. Ay, by God's grace! pert losel!
Tyrrel.

Prick along

Lord bishop! quicker! catch fresh air! we want it;
We have had foul enough till dinner-time.

Bishop. Varlet! I may chastise this insolence.

Tyrrel. I like those feathers: but there crows no cock Without an answer. Though the noisiest throat Sings from the belfrey of snug Winchester, Yet he from Westminster hath stouter spurs. Bishop. God's blood! were I no bishop Tyrrel.

Were cooler.

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50

Then thy own

Bishop. Whip that hound aside! O Christ!
The beast has paw'd my housings! What a day
For dirt!

Tyrrel. The scent lies well; pity no more
The housings; look, my lord! here trots the king!
Rufus. Which of you broke my palings down?
Bishop.

Most gracious sir.

Rufus.

No doubt he does; but you, Bishop! could surely teach us what God knows. Ride back and order some score handicrafts

To fix them in their places.

Bishop.

The command

Of our most gracious king shall be obeyed.
Malisons on the atheist !

Who can tell

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God knows,

[Riding off.

Where are my squires and other men? confused
Among the servitors of temporal lords!

I must e'en turn again and hail that brute.
Sir Walter! good Sir Walter! one half-word!

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[TYRREL rides toward him.

Sir Walter! may I task your courtesy
To find me any of my followers?
Tyrrel. Willingly.

Rufus.

Stay with me; I want thee, Tyrrel !

At nothing.

What does the bishop bogle at?

Tyrrel.

He seeks his people, to retrieve the damage.
Rufus. Where are the lords?

Tyrrel.

And falling in the rear.

Rufus.

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Gone past your grace, bare-headed,

Well, prick then on.

I care but little for the chase to-day,

Although the scent lies sweetly. To knock down
My paling is vexatious. We must see
Our great improvements in this forest; what
Of roads blockt up, of hamlets swept away,
Of lurking dens called cottages, and cells,
And hermitages. Tyrrel! thou didst right
And dutifully, to remove the house
Of thy forefathers. 'Twas an odd request
To leave the dovecote for the sake of those
Flea-bitten blind old pigeons.

There it stands !

But, in God's name! what mean these hives? the bees

May sting my dogs.

Tyrrel.

They hunt not in the summer.

Rufus. They may torment my fawns.

Tyrrel.

Sir, not unless

Driven from their hives: they like the flowers much better.
Rufus. Flowers! and leave flowers too!
Tyrrel.

Only some half-wild,

In tangled knots; balm, clary, marjoram.

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Rufus. What lies beyond this close briar hedge, that smells Through the thick dew upon it, pleasantly?

Tyrrel. A poor low cottage: the dry marl-pit shields it,

And, frail and unsupported like itself,
Peace-breathing honeysuckles comfort it
In its misfortunes.

Rufus.

I am fain to laugh

At thy rank minstrelsy. A poor low cottage!
Only a poor low cottage! where, I ween,

A poor low maiden blesses Walter Tyrrel.
Tyrrel. It may be so.
Rufus.
No; it may not be so.
My orders were that all should be removed;
And, out of special favour, special trust
In thee, Sir Walter, I consign'd the care
Into thy own hands, of razing thy own house
And those about it; since thou hast another
Fairer and newer, and more lands around.

Tyrrel. Hall, chapel, chamber, cellar, turret, grange,
Are level with the grass.

Rufus. What negligence

To leave the work then incomplete, when little
Was there remaining! Strip that roof, and start

Thy petty game from cover.

Tyrrel.

Command not this!

O my liege!

Make me no confidant

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130

Rufus.

Of thy base loves.

Tyrrel.

Nor you, my liege! nor any:

Rufus.

Thou 'rt at bay;

None such hath Walter Tyrrel.

Thou hast forgotten thy avowal, man!

Tyrrel. My father's house is (like my father) gone: But in that house, and from that father's heart

Mine grew into his likeness, and held thence
Its rich possessions God forgive my boast!
He bade me help the needy, raise the low
Rufus. And stand against thy king!
Tyrrel.

Of oxen, from how many villages

How many yokes

For miles around, brought I, at my own charge,
To bear away the rafters and the beams

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