_Hen._ How now, my chancellor? Methinks this day Should mark the high note of thy singing heart. But thou art gloomy, as weighing still thy chance Against the flocking French. Canst not be merry If Henry bids thee, Hubert? _Hub._ Ah, my lord, I little thought to have escaped the foe. _Hen._ Is that to grieve on, man? By Heaven, I'll think It would have pleased you better to have sunk My fleet and not the enemy's. Come, come! What think you of the fortune we've assigned you? Art satisfied? _Hub._ O, 'tis not to be borne! _Hen._ I' faith, thou 'rt plain. _Hub._ O, dear my liege, I mean---- _Hen._ Well, sir, I have another blessing for thee May prove more welcome. How wouldst like a wife Of royal blood? I will not tell her name, But take my word that were my heart not bound I'd look her way for fetters. She is fair, Ay, perfect as the lily plucked to grace A Lord's day altar, yet is proud enough To hold your new-dropped dignities above The mire and brambles of the common way; And all this, sir, shall be your wedded wife. _Hub._ My lord---- _Hen._ Nay, do not thank me. Ah, at last I've touched the key of gratitude. Indeed, My Hubert, you are pale with this new joy. I almost, fear to tell you she is there-- Within that room--and waiting your approach. _Hub._ My royal lord--I beg---- _Hen._ No, not a word Of thanks. _Hub._ Not thanks! There's something else to say! _Hen._ What, sir? Wouldst still play hang-lip at thy fortune? _Hub._ Hear me, your majesty! _Hen._ Nay, I will speak. Sir, I have done what monarchs seldom do, Proclaimed my general worthy of his hire, And paid it, too, and these sour looks from you Are as the poisonous leaves in a fair garland Marking it for decay. I've yielded much Unto your noble merit, but no more Will yield to your proud humor! _Hub._ Hear, my lord---- _Hen._ No words! There is the door. Go in and find The lady that must be your wife, or down Come all your brave new honors to the ground! [_Opens door and forces him through. Margaret is lying on the floor, her face hidden_] _Hub._ O, Heaven! 'Tis Margaret! _Mar._ O! [_Leaps up, gazes at Hubert and runs to his arms_] Hubert, Hubert! [_The king closes the doors upon them_] _Hen._ The midnight's past. I must away to Glaia, And by the sunrise at her window sing. My lords are set toward London. None shall know, Save Cupid's self, how far I ride to-night. [_Curtain_] ACT IV SCENE 1. _Near the cottage in Greenot woods. Henry, with lute, singing._