8TH BEGGAR. And I ha' nine darters i' the spital that be dead ten times o'er i' one day wi' the putrid fever; and I bring the taint on it along wi' me, for the Archbishop likes it, my lord. [_Pressing upon the_ KNIGHTS _till they disappear thro' the door_. 3RD BEGGAR. Crutches, and itches, and leprosies, and ulcers, and gangrenes, and running sores, praise ye the Lord, for to-night ye have saved our Archbishop! 1ST BEGGAR. I'll go back again. I hain't half done yet. HERBERT OF BOSHAM (_entering_). My friends, the Archbishop bids you good-night. He hath retired to rest, and being in great jeopardy of his life, he hath made his bed between the altars, from whence he sends me to bid you this night pray for him who hath fed you in the wilderness. 3RD BEGGAR. So we will--so we will, I warrant thee. Becket shall be king, and the Holy Father shall be king, and the world shall live by the King's venison and the bread o' the Lord, and there shall be no more poor for ever. Hurrah! Vive le Roy! That's the English of it. ACT II. SCENE I.--ROSAMUND'S _Bower. A Garden of Flowers. In the midst a bank of wild-flowers with a bench before it_. _Voices heard singing among the trees_. _Duet_. 1. Is it the wind of the dawn that I hear in the pine overhead? 2. No; but the voice of the deep as it hollows the cliffs of the land. 1. Is there a voice coming up with the voice of the deep from the strand, One coming up with a song in the flush of the glimmering red? 2. Love that is born of the deep coming up with the sun from the sea. 1. Love that can shape or can shatter a life till the life shall have fled? 2. Nay, let us welcome him, Love that can lift up a life from the dead. 1. Keep him away from the lone little isle. Let us be, let us be. 2. Nay, let him make it his own, let him reign in it--he, it is he, Love that is born of the deep coming up with the sun from the sea. _Enter_ HENRY _and_ ROSAMUND. ROSAMUND. Be friends with him again--I do beseech thee. HENRY. With Becket? I have but one hour with thee-- Sceptre and crozier clashing, and the mitre Grappling the crown--and when I flee from this For a gasp of freer air, a breathing-while To rest upon thy bosom and forget him-- Why thou, my bird, thou pipest Becket, Becket-- Yea, thou my golden dream of Love's own bower, Must be the nightmare breaking on my peace With 'Becket.' ROSAMUND. O my life's life, not to smile Is all but death to me. My sun, no cloud! Let there not be one frown in this one hour. Out of the many thine, let this be mine! Look rather thou all-royal as when first I met thee. HENRY. Where was that? ROSAMUND. Forgetting that Forgets me too. HENRY. Nay, I remember it well. There on the moors.