Michael Field (Katherine Harris Bradley) (1846–1914)

(BOTHWELL rises and stands straight up without the least motion.)

Bothwell.THIS woman! Somewhere she has pledged my soul;

We have drunk wine together on some bare,

Brown hill of chaos, while the wanton lights,

Young meteors flaming lawless through the heaven

Peered at our rampant revel. We were one

Before the stars were broken to their spheres;

Part of the huge, unsevered element

When day and darkness hugged. I know that far

Below the rise of rivers, underneath

The sowing of the mine’s unfathomed seed,

There was this sunken bond. She flings me now

Contempt, my lass! my lass! What should we find

In woman but the lavish side of God,

Before the thought of judgment crippled Him,

When He was soft, creative, fostering, free?

Contempt, contempt! Night’s stinging moments spin,

And stir me to an act: the regicides

With their dismaying weapons shall have done

By far less intimate irreverence

On majesty than I in person dare.

Hell will be puzzled what to do with such

As I shall show myself, it has no code

That can entangle me, no quarter builded

That might immure my unimagined courage,

No flames to equal mine. The royal witch,

She sought to disenchant me in the guise

Of formal coldness, she the beauty, she

The madding, unfoiled beauty. How the air

Dreads me, I breathe on lion-like! She has said

She needs no convoy! I will furnish one:

She must with me the merry, downward way,

Where demons cackle. I will meet my bride

At Foulsbrigg with an army. This contempt

Is an infectious plague![Exit by outside door.