Thou rose of all the roses!

[Muttering.

I am not worthy of her--this beast-body That G.o.d has plunged my soul in--I, that taking The Fiend's advantage of a throne, so long Have wander'd among women,--a foul stream Thro' fever-breeding levels,--at her side, Among these happy dales, run clearer, drop The mud I carried, like yon brook, and gla.s.s The faithful face of heaven-- [Looking at her, and unconsciously aloud, --thine! thine!

ROSAMUND.

I know it.

HENRY (_muttering_).

Not hers. We have but one bond, her hate of Becket.

ROSAMUND (half hearing).

Nay! nay! what art thou muttering? _I_ hate Becket?

HENRY (_muttering_).

A sane and natural loathing for a soul Purer, and truer and n.o.bler than herself; And mine a bitterer illegitimate hate, A b.a.s.t.a.r.d hate born of a former love.

ROSAMUND, My fault to name him! O let the hand of one To whom thy voice is all her music, stay it But for a breath.

[_Puts her hand before his lips_.

Speak only of thy love.

Why there--like some loud beggar at thy gate-- The happy boldness of this hand hath won it Love's alms, thy kiss (_looking at her hand_)--Sacred!

I'll kiss it too. [_Kissing it_.

There! wherefore dost thou so peruse it? Nay, There may be crosses in my line of life.

HENRY.

Not half _her_ hand--no hand to mate with _her_, If it should come to that.

ROSAMUND.

With her? with whom?

HENRY.

Life on the hand is naked gipsy-stuff; Life on the face, the brows-clear innocence!

Vein'd marble--not a furrow yet--and hers [_Muttering_.

Crost and recrost, a venomous spider's web--

ROSAMUND (_springing up_).

Out of the cloud, my Sun--out of the eclipse Narrowing my golden hour!

HENRY.

O Rosamund, I would be true--would tell thee all--and something I had to say--I love thee none the less-- Which will so vex thee.

ROSAMUND.

Something against _me_?

HENRY.

No, no, against myself.

ROSAMUND.

I will not hear it.

Come, come, mine hour! I bargain for mine hour.

I'll call thee little Geoffrey.

HENRY.

Call him!

ROSAMUND.

Geoffrey!

[_Enter_ GEOFFREY.

HENRY.

How the boy grows!

ROSAMUND.

Ay, and his brows are thine; The mouth is only Clifford, my dear father.

GEOFFREY.

My liege, what hast thou brought me?

HENRY.

Venal imp!

What say'st thou to the Chancellorship of England?

GEOFFREY.

O yes, my liege.

HENRY.

'O yes, my liege!' He speaks As if it were a cake of gingerbread.

Dost thou know, my boy, what it is to be Chancellor of England?

GEOFFREY.

Something good, or thou wouldst not give it me.

HENRY.

It is, my boy, to side with the King when Chancellor, and then to be made Archbishop and go against the King who made him, and turn the world upside down.

GEOFFREY.

I won't have it then. Nay, but give it me, and I promise thee not to turn the world upside down.

HENRY (_giving him a ball_).

Here is a ball, my boy, thy world, to turn anyway and play with as thou wilt--which is more than I can do with mine. Go try it, play.

[_Exit_ GEOFFREY.

A pretty l.u.s.ty boy.

ROSAMUND.

So like to thee; Like to be liker.

HENRY.

Not in my chin, I hope!

That threatens double.

ROSAMUND.