QUEEN (_sadly_). Kinsman, my lot is cast in loneliness, a solitary rock amid the breakers; danger, doubt and treason ever round me, knowing not whom to trust. My very council, blind to their country’s welfare, squabble about foreign policy, and even if honest are divided. Some are for marrying me, in the interest of Spain, some in that of France. Or that I’m lost—Even Cecil. HOWARD (_impassioned and abrupt_). Sheer madness, either! to end in civil war, and then in nothingness. Was it for the good of England that Philip sought your hand? and now would marry you to his minion, Austria? Or that France would impose her wretched ape upon you? No! England must, and can stand alone, against the world. (_He walks aside proudly agitated_). QUEEN (_with decision_). Fear not, noble kinsman; never will I divide my crown with mortal man, nor barter the glory and independence of my country. Rather war! or death! But I am harrassed—worried. My court’s a very comedy. Here are at least a dozen Ambassadors intriguing, lying, bribing among my maids of honour as if the hand of Elizabeth could be thus obtained. And (_laughing_) I am afraid they will cut one another’s throats in my presence. HOWARD (_laughing_). Ha! Ha! Ha! Comedy! By my halidame, a good one (_rubbing his hands_). Lord, what fun to see the fools draw, and go at it. QUEEN (_laughing with affected surprise_). By the soul of King Harry, Uncle, you would make a Roman Amphitheatre in Greenwich Park, and fight them there in pairs, like gladiators.