HENRY. Thou rose of the world! Thou rose of all the roses! [Muttering. I am not worthy of her--this beast-body That God 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 glass 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 nobler than herself; And mine a bitterer illegitimate hate, A bastard 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.