Classic Poem

SCENE III — Dunley Tower

Lord D UNLEY and M ICHAEL Z EBRA .

D UN. Speak not to me!
As if we were not mere life-loving vermin,
Wold-hunted to our hole here, basely burrowing;
And he at large the while — he, Wold — triumphant,
Marrying my chosen one! Perdition!
Isn't that enough? What would you more? Come now,
Word me no words, look me no confident looks,
Till you're prepared to show me — can you show me
How I may baulk that marriage?
Z EB. Yes, methinks.
D UN. Mere words of course. Where's all your bragging now
Of what the King would do when he came back
From Ireland with his host? Where's that host now?
Where's he himself? His twenty thousand men
Are last year's snow. Himself lies fast in prison,
Kingdomless, hopeless. Can we give him hope,
We with our skulkers, our poor patch of serfs,
Driven to our hiding here? Nay, Wold, be sure,
Down on us whelming comes. What shall we do?
Can Italy's subtlest soul answer me there?
Z EB. Stand at bay, then.
D UN. That's all? So you confess
Your shifts are ended now?
Z EB. Good night, my Lord;
AI'll do't, then.
D UN. Hang yourself?
Z EB. Bring Mervyn hither.
Having her here, we have a hank o'er Wold,
Should he with bold effrontery dare to siege us,
Whilst his own mother's holding out hard by
In the self-same cause as we.
D UN. Fine work for knights!
Z EB. We'll do it fitly
D UN. How?
Z EB. Through Lady Staines.
We'll make it simply seem that she has placed
Her niece with you in these distracted times,
As her next kinsman, to prevent that marriage
With a marked traitor. Lady Mervyn's young,
And there's the dignity of guardianship
In what you do. But wouldn't you stay, my Lord,
That wedding at all hazards?
D UN. Bring her, then;
I'll burn her with me in my tower, sooner
Than let her fall into Wold's hands again.
Z EB. Press us he won't, she being in our power.
What then? The new-made King's too politic
To push us hard: he'll give us all fair terms.
So now, we'll try to bring her.
D UN. Try! that's all?
Z EB. Good, my Lord, you should wonder at my means
And skill to do it, doubt, and pique me on.
Nathless, I'll fail you not