ELEANOR. I warrant thee! thou wouldst hug thy Cupid till his ribs cracked-- enough of this. Follow me this Rosamund day and night, whithersoever she goes; track her, if thou canst, even into the King's lodging, that I may (_clenches her fist_)--may at least have my cry against him and her,--and thou in thy way shouldst be jealous of the King, for thou in thy way didst once, what shall I call it, affect her thine own self. FITZURSE. Ay, but the young colt winced and whinnied and flung up her heels; and then the King came honeying about her, and this Becket, her father's friend, like enough staved us from her. ELEANOR. Us! FITZURSE. Yea, by the Blessed Virgin! There were more than I buzzing round the blossom--De Tracy--even that flint De Brito. ELEANOR. Carry her off among you; run in upon her and devour her, one and all of you; make her as hateful to herself and to the King, as she is to me. FITZURSE. I and all would be glad to wreak our spite on the rose-faced minion of the King, and bring her to the level of the dust, so that the King-- ELEANOR. Let her eat it like the serpent, and be driven out of her paradise. ACT ONE. SCENE I.--BECKET'S _House in London. Chamber barely furnished_. BECKET _unrobing_. HERBERT OF BOSHAM _and_ SERVANT. SERVANT. Shall I not help your lordship to your rest? BECKET. Friend, am I so much better than thyself That thou shouldst help me? Thou art wearied out With this day's work, get thee to thine own bed. Leave me with Herbert, friend. [_Exit_ SERVANT. Help me off, Herbert, with this--and this. HERBERT. Was not the people's blessing as we past Heart-comfort and a balsam to thy blood? BECKET. The people know their Church a tower of strength, A bulwark against Throne and Baronage. Too heavy for me, this; off with it, Herbert! HERBERT. Is it so much heavier than thy Chancellor's robe? BECKET. No; but the Chancellor's and the Archbishop's Together more than mortal man can bear. HERBERT. Not heavier than thine armour at Thoulouse? BECKET. O Herbert, Herbert, in my chancellorship I more than once have gone against the Church. HERBERT. To please the King? BECKET. Ay, and the King of kings, Or justice; for it seem'd to me but just The Church should pay her scutage like the lords. But hast thou heard this cry of Gilbert Foliot That I am not the man to be your Primate, For Henry could not work a miracle-- Make an Archbishop of a soldier? HERBERT. Ay, For Gilbert Foliot held himself the man. BECKET. Am I the man? My mother, ere she bore me, Dream'd that twelve stars fell glittering out of heaven Into her bosom. HERBERT. Ay, the fire, the light, The spirit of the twelve Apostles enter'd Into thy making. BECKET. And when I was a child, The Virgin, in a vision of my sleep, Gave me the golden keys of Paradise. Dream, Or prophecy, that? HERBERT. Well, dream and prophecy both.