ROSAMUND. I will but pass to vespers, And breathe one prayer for my liege-lord the King, His child and mine own soul, and so return. BECKET. Pray for me too: much need of prayer have I. [ROSAMUND _kneels and goes_. Dan John, how much we lose, we celibates, Lacking the love of woman and of child. JOHN OF SALISBURY. More gain than loss; for of your wives you shall Find one a slut whose fairest linen seems Foul as her dust-cloth, if she used it--one So charged with tongue, that every thread of thought Is broken ere it joins--a shrew to boot, Whose evil song far on into the night Thrills to the topmost tile--no hope but death; One slow, fat, white, a burthen of the hearth; And one that being thwarted ever swoons And weeps herself into the place of power; And one an _uxor pauperis Ibyci_. So rare the household honey-making bee, Man's help! but we, we have the Blessed Virgin For worship, and our Mother Church for bride; And all the souls we saved and father'd here Will greet us as our babes in Paradise. What noise was that? she told us of arm'd men Here in the city. Will you not withdraw? BECKET. I once was out with Henry in the days When Henry loved me, and we came upon A wild-fowl sitting on her nest, so still I reach'd my hand and touch'd; she did not stir; The snow had frozen round her, and she sat Stone-dead upon a heap of ice-cold eggs. Look! how this love, this mother, runs thro' all The world God made--even the beast--the bird! JOHN OF SALISBURY. Ay, still a lover of the beast and bird? But these arm'd men--will you not hide yourself? Perchance the fierce De Brocs from Saltwood Castle, To assail our Holy Mother lest she brood Too long o'er this hard egg, the world, and send Her whole heart's heat into it, till it break Into young angels. Pray you, hide yourself. BECKET. There was a little fair-hair'd Norman maid Lived in my mother's house: if Rosamund is The world's rose, as her name imports her--she Was the world's lily. JOHN OF SALISBURY. Ay, and what of her? BECKET. She died of leprosy. JOHN OF SALISBURY. I know not why You call these old things back again, my lord. BECKET. The drowning man, they say, remembers all The chances of his life, just ere he dies. JOHN OF SALISBURY. Ay--but these arm'd men--will _you_ drown _yourself?_ He loses half the meed of martyrdom Who will be martyr when he might escape. BECKET. What day of the week? Tuesday? JOHN OF SALISBURY. Tuesday, my lord, BECKET. On a Tuesday was I born, and on a Tuesday Baptized; and on a Tuesday did I fly Forth from Northampton; on a Tuesday pass'd From England into bitter banishment; On a Tuesday at Pontigny came to me The ghostly warning of my martyrdom; On a Tuesday from mine exile I return'd, And on a Tuesday-- [TRACY _enters, then_ FITZURSE, DE BRITO, _and_ DE MORVILLE. MONKS _following_.