_Kent._ Ah, Eleanor, why desolate your days With this wild fear? 'Tis Heaven you've sinned against, Not man. Look thou above for condemnation. The world is harsh to virtue, not to sin. See how the daughter of the earl of Valence, John's one-time mistress, proudly holds her head, Nor lacks for fawning followers? And mark How Rosamond's two sons have fixed their line Fast 'mong our English peers. If you would dare To bring sweet Glaia forth, I do not doubt The court would welcome her as princess born. _La. Alb._ But Albemarle! He never would forgive! Christine of Valence was not wife to him, Else would her mimic court be dungeon close, And racks, not lovers, kiss her dainty fingers. You've never seen his rage! O, swear again You'll set securest watch on act and tongue, Nor let---- _Kent._ Here is your lord with Winchester. _La. Alb._ O! _Kent._ Come, I'll satisfy you, Eleanor. [_Exeunt, right. Winchester and Albemarle enter rear_] _Win._ The name of Kent erases church and state And king. Fortune grows doting, and would make A darling of this man. _Alb._ She'll change her love, Doubt not. _Win._ 'Tis time. New favors upon him light As birds on fruity branches. Castles and estates Are but as feathers every wind brings in. Dost not begin to fear him? _Alb._ You are pleasant. I fear? When I could lend him half my power, And yet o'erbear him? In the north there are One thousand leaders holding swords of me! _Win._ I'm answered then? _Alb._ Ay, sir. Though not from love To Kent, nor hate to you, do I deny you. But I'll not stand the champion of a wanton, Though royal daughter of a royal sire. The knightly Albemarles have never stooped To lift adultery from its miry bed And set its colors on their virtuous helm. _Win._ Now, by your leave, the half of England comes Into the world by left hand of the priest, Yet fight and pray as well as you or I, Nor bates a jot their honor in men's eyes. _Alb._ You have my answer. When I'm ready for 't, I'll tumble Kent to earth in my own fashion, And not by means that sets French Adelais On virtue's pinnacle, a star of gilt To falsely glitter in the eye of dames And set them wandering with their vanities Till they forget the way to their true lords. _Win._ [_Musing_] I'm writing a court history, your grace. 'Twas John, I think, who set your countess' father On fortune's road. _Alb._ Nay, 'twas the king before him, Henry the Second. _Win._ [_Going_] Well, my wary lord, I have no bruise to nurse, and meet the blow Befalls from any point. _Alb._ What do you say?