ELEANOR. Well acted, was it? A comedy meant to seem a tragedy-- A feint, a farce. My honest lord, you are known Thro' all the courts of Christendom as one That mars a cause with over-violence. You have wrong'd Fitzurse. I speak not of myself. We thought to scare this minion of the King Back from her churchless commerce with the King To the fond arms of her first love, Fitzurse, Who swore to marry her. You have spoilt the farce. My savage cry? Why, she--she--when I strove To work against her license for her good, Bark'd out at me such monstrous charges, that The King himself, for love of his own sons, If hearing, would have spurn'd her; whereupon I menaced her with this, as when we threaten A yelper with a stick. Nay, I deny not That I was somewhat anger'd. Do you hear me? Believe or no, I care not. You have lost The ear of the King. I have it.... My lord Paramount, Our great High-priest, will not your Holiness Vouchsafe a gracious answer to your Queen? BECKET. Rosamund hath not answer'd you one word; Madam, I will not answer you one word. Daughter, the world hath trick'd thee. Leave it, daughter; Come thou with me to Godstow nunnery, And live what may be left thee of a life Saved as by miracle alone with Him Who gave it. _Re-enter_ GEOFFREY. GEOFFREY. Mother, you told me a great fib: it wasn't in the willow. BECKET. Follow us, my son, and we will find it for thee-- Or something manlier. [_Exeunt_ BECKET, ROSAMUND, _and_ GEOFFREY. ELEANOR. The world hath trick'd her--that's the King; if so, There was the farce, the feint--not mine. And yet I am all but sure my dagger was a feint Till the worm turn'd--not life shot up in blood, But death drawn in;--_(looking at the vial) this_ was no feint then? no. But can I swear to that, had she but given Plain answer to plain query? nay, methinks Had she but bow'd herself to meet the wave Of humiliation, worshipt whom she loathed, I should have let her be, scorn'd her too much To harm her. Henry--Becket tells him this-- To take my life might lose him Aquitaine. Too politic for that. Imprison me? No, for it came to nothing--only a feint. Did she not tell me I was playing on her? I'll swear to mine own self it was a feint. Why should I swear, Eleanor, who am, or was, A sovereign power? The King plucks out their eyes Who anger him, and shall not I, the Queen, Tear out her heart--kill, kill with knife or venom One of his slanderous harlots? 'None of such?' I love her none the more. Tut, the chance gone, She lives--but not for him; one point is gain'd. O I, that thro' the Pope divorced King Louis, Scorning his monkery,--I that wedded Henry, Honouring his manhood--will he not mock at me The jealous fool balk'd of her will--with _him_? But he and he must never meet again. Reginald Fitzurse! _Re-enter_ FITZURSE. FITZURSE. Here, Madam, at your pleasure. ELEANOR. My pleasure is to have a man about me. Why did you slink away so like a cur?