Becket and other plays eBook

JOHN OF OXFORD. 
                                 For this reason,
That, being ever duteous to the King,
I evermore have sworn upon his side,
And ever mean to do it.

HENRY (claps him on the shoulder). 
                        Honest John! 
To Rome again! the storm begins again. 
Spare not thy tongue! be lavish with our coins,
Threaten our junction with the Emperor—­flatter
And fright the Pope—­bribe all the Cardinals—­leave
Lateran and Vatican in one dust of gold—­
Swear and unswear, state and misstate thy best! 
I go to have young Henry crown’d by York.

ACT III.

SCENE I.—­The Bower.  HENRY and ROSAMUND.

HENRY. 
All that you say is just.  I cannot answer it
Till better times, when I shall put away—­

ROSAMUND. 
What will you put away?

HENRY. 
                        That which you ask me
Till better times.  Let it content you now
There is no woman that I love so well.

ROSAMUND. 
No woman but should be content with that—­

HENRY. 
And one fair child to fondle!

ROSAMUND. 
                              O yes, the child
We waited for so long—­heaven’s gift at last—­
And how you doated on him then!  To-day
I almost fear’d your kiss was colder—­yes—­
But then the child is such a child.  What chance
That he should ever spread into the man
Here in our silence?  I have done my best. 
I am not learn’d.

HENRY. 
                  I am the King, his father,
And I will look to it.  Is our secret ours? 
Have you had any alarm? no stranger?

ROSAMUND. 
                                     No. 
The warder of the bower hath given himself
Of late to wine.  I sometimes think he sleeps
When he should watch; and yet what fear? the people
Believe the wood enchanted.  No one comes,
Nor foe nor friend; his fond excess of wine
Springs from the loneliness of my poor bower,
Which weighs even on me.

HENRY. 
                         Yet these tree-towers,
Their long bird-echoing minster-aisles,—­the voice
Of the perpetual brook, these golden slopes
Of Solomon-shaming flowers—­that was your saying,
All pleased you so at first.

ROSAMUND. 
                             Not now so much. 
My Anjou bower was scarce as beautiful. 
But you were oftener there.  I have none but you. 
The brook’s voice is not yours, and no flower, not
The sun himself, should he be changed to one,
Could shine away the darkness of that gap
Left by the lack of love.

HENRY. 
                          The lack of love!

ROSAMUND. 
Of one we love.  Nay, I would not be bold,
Yet hoped ere this you might—­
                        [Looks earnestly at him.