SCENE II.--_Montmirail. 'The Meeting of the Kings.'_ JOHN OF OXFORD _and_ HENRY. _Crowd in the distance_. JOHN OF OXFORD. You have not crown'd young Henry yet, my liege? HENRY. Crown'd! by God's eyes, we will not have him crown'd. I spoke of late to the boy, he answer'd me, As if he wore the crown already--No, We will not have him crown'd. 'Tis true what Becket told me, that the mother Would make him play his kingship against mine. JOHN OF OXFORD. Not have him crown'd? HENRY. Not now--not yet! and Becket Becket should crown him were he crown'd at all: But, since we would be lord of our own manor, This Canterbury, like a wounded deer, Has fled our presence and our feeding-grounds. JOHN OF OXFORD. Cannot a smooth tongue lick him whole again To serve your will? HENRY. He hates my will, not me. JOHN OF OXFORD. There's York, my liege. HENRY. But England scarce would hold Young Henry king, if only crown'd by York, And that would stilt up York to twice himself. There is a movement yonder in the crowd-- See if our pious--what shall I call him, John?-- Husband-in-law, our smooth-shorn suzerain, Be yet within the field. JOHN OF OXFORD. I will. [_Exit_. HENRY. Ay! Ay! Mince and go back! his politic Holiness Hath all but climb'd the Roman perch again, And we shall hear him presently with clapt wing Crow over Barbarossa--at last tongue-free To blast my realms with excommunication And interdict. I must patch up a peace-- A piece in this long-tugged at, threadbare-worn Quarrel of Crown and Church--to rend again. His Holiness cannot steer straight thro' shoals, Nor I. The citizen's heir hath conquer'd me For the moment. So we make our peace with him. [Enter_ Louis. Brother of France, what shall be done with Becket? LOUIS. The holy Thomas! Brother, you have traffick'd Between the Emperor and the Pope, between The Pope and Antipope--a perilous game For men to play with God. HENRY. Ay, ay, good brother, They call you the Monk-King. LOUIS. Who calls me? she That was my wife, now yours? You have her Duchy, The point you aim'd at, and pray God she prove True wife to you. You have had the better of us In secular matters. HENRY. Come, confess, good brother, You did your best or worst to keep her Duchy. Only the golden Leopard printed in it Such hold-fast claws that you perforce again Shrank into France. Tut, tut! did we convene This conference but to babble of our wives? They are plagues enough in-door. LOUIS. We fought in the East, And felt the sun of Antioch scald our mail, And push'd our lances into Saracen hearts. We never hounded on the State at home To spoil the Church. HENRY. How should you see this rightly?