The sea froths underfoot

john9221

north folk all sweet ways of FranceBut at this time we have no heart
to it. Sitsirand talk. Lookthis breast-clasp is newThe French king sent
it me.
CHASTELARD. A goodly thing: But what device? the word is ill to
catch.
QUEEN. A Venus crownedthat eats the hearts of men: Below her flies
a love with a bat's wingsAnd strings the hair of paramours to bind Live
birds' feet with. Lo what small subtle work: The smith's nameGian
Grisostomo da--what? Can you read that? The sea froths underfoot; She
stands upon the sea and it curls up In soft loose curls that run to one in the
wind. But her hair is not shakenthere 's a fault; It lies straight down in
close-cut points and tonguesNot like blown hair. The legend is writ small:
Still one makes out this--*Cave*--if you look.
CHASTELARD. I see the Venus well enoughGod wotBut nothing
of the legend.
QUEEN. Comefair lordShall we dance now? My heart is good
again.
[They dance a measure.]
DARNLEY. I do not like this manner of a danceThis game of two by
two; it were much better To meet between the changes and to mix Than
still to keep apart and whispering Each lady out of earshot with her friend.
MARY BEATON. That 's as the lady serves her knightI think: We are
broken up too much.
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On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Published bbaafdhh