Henry VI, Part 2 - Shakespeare in Love with the divine SEA

The dark sea - photo by Fernando Costa

QUEEN MARGARET

    Be woe for me, more wretched than he is.
    What, dost thou turn away and hide thy face?
    I am no loathsome leper; look on me.
    What! art thou, like the adder, waxen deaf?
    Be poisonous too and kill thy forlorn queen.
    Is all thy comfort shut in Gloucester's tomb?
    Why, then, dame Margaret was ne'er thy joy.
    Erect his statue and worship it,
    And make my image but an alehouse sign.
    Was I for this nigh wreck'd upon the sea
    And twice by awkward wind from England's bank
    Drove back again unto my native clime?
    What boded this, but well forewarning wind
    Did seem to say 'Seek not a scorpion's nest,
    Nor set no footing on this unkind shore'?
    What did I then, but cursed the gentle gusts
    And he that loosed them forth their brazen caves:
    And bid them blow towards England's blessed shore,
    Or turn our stern upon a dreadful rock
    Yet AEolus would not be a murderer,
    But left that hateful office unto thee:
    The pretty-vaulting sea refused to drown me,
    Knowing that thou wouldst have me drown'd on shore,
    With tears as salt as sea, through thy unkindness:
    The splitting rocks cower'd in the sinking sands
    And would not dash me with their ragged sides,
    Because thy flinty heart, more hard than they,
    Might in thy palace perish Margaret.
    As far as I could ken thy chalky cliffs,
    When from thy shore the tempest beat us back,
    I stood upon the hatches in the storm,
    And when the dusky sky began to rob
    My earnest-gaping sight of thy land's view,
    I took a costly jewel from my neck,
    A heart it was, bound in with diamonds,
    And threw it towards thy land: the sea received it,
    And so I wish'd thy body might my heart:
    And even with this I lost fair England's view
    And bid mine eyes be packing with my heart
    And call'd them blind and dusky spectacles,
    For losing ken of Albion's wished coast.
    How often have I tempted Suffolk's tongue,
    The agent of thy foul inconstancy,
    To sit and witch me, as Ascanius did
    When he to madding Dido would unfold
    His father's acts commenced in burning Troy!
    Am I not witch'd like her? or thou not false like him?
    Ay me, I can no more! die, Margaret!
    For Henry weeps that thou dost live so long.

William Shakespeare