FITZURSE. Give her to me. ELEANOR. The Judas-lover of our passion-play Hath track'd us hither. FITZURSE. Well, why not? I follow'd You and the child: he babbled all the way. Give her to me to make my honeymoon. ELEANOR. Ay, as the bears love honey. Could you keep her Indungeon'd from one whisper of the wind, Dark even from a side glance of the moon, And oublietted in the centre--No! I follow out my hate and thy revenge. FITZURSE. You bad me take revenge another way-- To bring her to the dust.... Come with me, love, And I will love thee.... Madam, let her live. I have a far-off burrow where the King Would miss her and for ever. ELEANOR. How sayst thou, sweetheart? Wilt thou go with him? he will marry thee. ROSAMUND. Give me the poison; set me free of him! [ELEANOR _offers the vial_. No, no! I will not have it. ELEANOR. Then this other, The wiser choice, because my sleeping-draught May bloat thy beauty out of shape, and make Thy body loathsome even to thy child; While this but leaves thee with a broken heart, A doll-face blanch'd and bloodless, over which If pretty Geoffrey do not break his own, It must be broken for him. ROSAMUND. O I see now Your purpose is to fright me--a troubadour You play with words. You had never used so many, Not if you meant it, I am sure. The child.... No.... mercy! No! (_Kneels_.) ELEANOR. Play!... that bosom never Heaved under the King's hand with such true passion As at this loveless knife that stirs the riot, Which it will quench in blood! Slave, if he love thee, Thy life is worth the wrestle for it: arise, And dash thyself against me that I may slay thee! The worm! shall I let her go? But ha! what's here? By very God, the cross I gave the King! His village darling in some lewd caress Has wheedled it off the King's neck to her own. By thy leave, beauty. Ay, the same! I warrant Thou hast sworn on this my cross a hundred times Never to leave him--and that merits death, False oath on holy cross--for thou must leave him To-day, but not quite yet. My good Fitzurse, The running down the chase is kindlier sport Ev'n than the death. Who knows but that thy lover May plead so pitifully, that I may spare thee? Come hither, man; stand there. (_To Rosamund_) Take thy one chance; Catch at the last straw. Kneel to thy lord Fitzurse; Crouch even because thou hatest him; fawn upon him For thy life and thy son's.