ROSAMUND. And in a narrow path. A plover flew before thee. Then I saw Thy high black steed among the flaming furze, Like sudden night in the main glare of day. And from that height something was said to me I knew not what. HENRY. I ask'd the way. ROSAMUND. I think so. So I lost mine. HENRY. Thou wast too shamed to answer. ROSAMUND. Too scared--so young! HENRY. The rosebud of my rose!-- Well, well, no more of _him_--I have sent his folk, His kin, all his belongings, overseas; Age, orphans, and babe-breasting mothers--all By hundreds to him--there to beg, starve, die-- So that the fool King Louis feed them not. The man shall feel that I can strike him yet. ROSAMUND. Babes, orphans, mothers! is that royal, Sire? HENRY. And I have been as royal with the Church. He shelter'd in the Abbey of Pontigny. There wore his time studying the canon law To work it against me. But since he cursed My friends at Veselay, I have let them know, That if they keep him longer as their guest, I scatter all their cowls to all the hells. ROSAMUND. And is that altogether royal? HENRY. Traitress! ROSAMUND. A faithful traitress to thy royal fame. HENRY. Fame! what care I for fame? Spite, ignorance, envy, Yea, honesty too, paint her what way they will. Fame of to-day is infamy to-morrow; Infamy of to-day is fame to-morrow; And round and round again. What matters? Royal--I mean to leave the royalty of my crown Unlessen'd to mine heirs. ROSAMUND. Still--thy fame too: I say that should be royal. HENRY. And I say, I care not for thy saying. ROSAMUND. And I say, I care not for _thy_ saying. A greater King Than thou art, Love, who cares not for the word, Makes 'care not'--care. There have I spoken true? HENRY. Care dwell with me for ever, when I cease To care for thee as ever! ROSAMUND. No need! no need!... There is a bench. Come, wilt thou sit?... My bank Of wild-flowers [_he sits_]. At thy feet! [She sits at his feet. HENRY. I had them clear A royal pleasaunce for thee, in the wood, Not leave these countryfolk at court. ROSAMUND. I brought them In from the wood, and set them here. I love them More than the garden flowers, that seem at most Sweet guests, or foreign cousins, not half speaking The language of the land. I love _them_ too, Yes. But, my liege, I am sure, of all the roses-- Shame fall on those who gave it a dog's name-- This wild one (_picking a briar-rose_)--nay, I shall not prick myself-- Is sweetest. Do but smell!