What would ye have me do?

ROGER OF YORK.

Summon your barons; take their counsel: yet I know--could swear--as long as Becket breathes, Your Grace will never have one quiet hour.

HENRY.

What?... Ay ... but pray you do not work upon me.

I see your drift ... it may be so ... and yet You know me easily anger'd. Will you hence?

He shall absolve you ... you shall have redress.

I have a dizzying headache. Let me rest.

I'll call you by and by.

[_Exeunt_ ROGER OF YORK, FOLIOT, _and_ JOCELYN OF SALISBURY.

Would he were dead! I have lost all love for him.

If G.o.d would take him in some sudden way-- Would he were dead. [_Lies down_.

PAGE (_entering_).

My liege, the Queen of England.

HENRY.

G.o.d's eyes! [_Starting up_.

_Enter_ ELEANOR.

ELEANOR.

Of England? Say of Aquitaine.

I am no Queen of England. I had dream'd I was the bride of England, and a queen.

HENRY.

And,--while you dream'd you were the bride of England,-- Stirring her baby-king against me? ha!

ELEANOR.

The brideless Becket is thy king and mine: I will go live and die in Aquitaine.

HENRY.

Except I clap thee into prison here, Lest thou shouldst play the wanton there again.

Ha, you of Aquitaine! O you of Aquitaine!

You were but Aquitaine to Louis--no wife; You are only Aquitaine to me--no wife.

ELEANOR.

And why, my lord, should I be wife to one That only wedded me for Aquitaine?

Yet this no wife--her six and thirty sail Of Provence blew you to your English throne; And this no wife has born you four brave sons, And one of them at least is like to prove Bigger in our small world than thou art.

HENRY.

Ay-- Richard, if he _be_ mine--I hope him mine.

But thou art like enough to make him thine.

ELEANOR.

Becket is like enough to make all his.

HENRY.

Methought I had recover'd of the Becket, That all was planed and bevell'd smooth again, Save from some hateful cantrip of thine own.

ELEANOR.

I will go live and die in Aquitaine.

I dream'd I was the consort of a king, Not one whose back his priest has broken.

HENRY.

What!

Is the end come? You, will you crown my foe My victor in mid-battle? I will be Sole master of my house. The end is mine.

What game, what juggle, what devilry are you playing?

Why do you thrust this Becket on me again?

ELEANOR.

Why? for I _am_ true wife, and have my fears Lest Becket thrust you even from your throne.

Do you know this cross, my liege?

HENRY (_turning his head_).

Away! Not I.

ELEANOR.

Not ev'n the central diamond, worth, I think, Half of the Antioch whence I had it.

HENRY.

That?

ELEANOR.

I gave it you, and you your paramour; She sends it back, as being dead to earth, So dead henceforth to you.

HENRY.

Dead! you have murder'd her, Found out her secret bower and murder'd her.

ELEANOR.

Your Becket knew the secret of your bower.

HENRY (_calling out_).

Ho there! thy rest of life is hopeless prison.

ELEANOR.

And what would my own Aquitaine say to that?

First, free thy captive from _her_ hopeless prison.

HENRY.

O devil, can I free her from the grave?

ELEANOR.

You are too tragic: both of us are players In such a comedy as our court of Provence Had laugh'd at. That's a delicate Latin lay Of Walter Map: the lady holds the cleric Lovelier than any soldier, his poor tonsure A crown of Empire. Will you have it again?

(_Offering the cross. He dashes it down_.) St. Cupid, that is too irreverent.

Then mine once more. (_Puts it on_.) Your cleric hath your lady.