RENARD. Why, doubtless, Philip shows Some of the bearing of your blue blood--still All within measure--nay, it well becomes him. MARY. Hath he the large ability of his father? RENARD. Nay, some believe that he will go beyond him. MARY. Is this like him? RENARD. Ay, somewhat; but your Philip Is the most princelike Prince beneath the sun. This is a daub to Philip. MARY. Of a pure life? RENARD. As an angel among angels. Yea, by Heaven, The text--Your Highness knows it, 'Whosoever Looketh after a woman,' would not graze The Prince of Spain. You are happy in him there, Chaste as your Grace! MARY. I am happy in him there. RENARD. And would be altogether happy, Madam, So that your sister were but look'd to closer. You have sent her from the court, but then she goes, I warrant, not to hear the nightingales, But hatch you some new treason in the woods. MARY. We have our spies abroad to catch her tripping, And then if caught, to the Tower. RENARD. The Tower! the block! The word has turn'd your Highness pale; the thing Was no such scarecrow in your father's time. I have heard, the tongue yet quiver'd with the jest When the head leapt--so common! I do think To save your crown that it must come to this. MARY. No, Renard; it must never come to this. RENARD. Not yet; but your old Traitors of the Tower-- Why, when you put Northumberland to death, The sentence having past upon them all, Spared you the Duke of Suffolk, Guildford Dudley, Ev'n that young girl who dared to wear your crown? MARY. Dared? nay, not so; the child obey'd her father. Spite of her tears her father forced it on her. RENARD. Good Madam, when the Roman wish'd to reign, He slew not him alone who wore the purple, But his assessor in the throne, perchance A child more innocent than Lady Jane. MARY. I am English Queen, not Roman Emperor. RENARD. Yet too much mercy is a want of mercy, And wastes more life. Stamp out the fire, or this Will smoulder and re-flame, and burn the throne Where you should sit with Philip: he will not come Till she be gone. MARY. Indeed, if that were true-- For Philip comes, one hand in mine, and one Steadying the tremulous pillars of the Church-- But no, no, no. Farewell. I am somewhat faint With our long talk. Tho' Queen, I am not Queen Of mine own heart, which every now and then Beats me half dead: yet stay, this golden chain-- My father on a birthday gave it me, And I have broken with my father--take And wear it as memorial of a morning Which found me full of foolish doubts, and leaves me As hopeful. RENARD (_aside_). Whew--the folly of all follies Is to be love-sick for a shadow. (_Aloud_) Madam, This chains me to your service, not with gold, But dearest links of love. Farewell, and trust me, Philip is yours. [_Exit_. MARY. Mine--but not yet all mine. _Enter_ USHER.