LOUIS (_rising_). Return to Sens, where we will care for you. The wine and wealth of all our France are yours; Rest in our realm, and be at peace with all. [_Exeunt_. _Voices from the Crowd_. Long live the good King Louis! God bless the great Archbishop! _Re-enter_ HENRY _and_ JOHN OF OXFORD. HENRY (_looking after_ KING LOUIS _and_ BECKET). Ay, there they go--both backs are turn'd to me-- Why then I strike into my former path For England, crown young Henry there, and make Our waning Eleanor all but love me! John, Thou hast served me heretofore with Rome--and well. They call thee John the Swearer. 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.