HOWARD. Why then the King! for I would have him bring it Home to the leisure wisdom of his Queen, Before he go, that since these statutes past, Gardiner out-Gardiners Gardiner in his heat, Bonner cannot out-Bonner his own self-- Beast!--but they play with fire as children do, And burn the house. I know that these are breeding A fierce resolve and fixt heart-hate in men Against the King, the Queen, the Holy Father, The faith itself. Can I not see him? RENARD. Not now. And in all this, my Lord, her Majesty Is flint of flint, you may strike fire from her, Not hope to melt her. I will give your message. [_Exeunt_ PETRE _and_ HOWARD. _Enter_ PHILIP _(musing)_ PHILIP. She will not have Prince Philibert of Savoy, I talk'd with her in vain--says she will live And die true maid--a goodly creature too. Would _she_ had been the Queen! yet she must have him; She troubles England: that she breathes in England Is life and lungs to every rebel birth That passes out of embryo. Simon Renard! This Howard, whom they fear, what was he saying? RENARD. What your imperial father said, my liege, To deal with heresy gentlier. Gardiner burns, And Bonner burns; and it would seem this people Care more for our brief life in their wet land, Than yours in happier Spain. I told my Lord He should not vex her Highness; she would say These are the means God works with, that His church May flourish. PHILIP. Ay, sir, but in statesmanship To strike too soon is oft to miss the blow. Thou knowest I bad my chaplain, Castro, preach Against these burnings. RENARD. And the Emperor Approved you, and when last he wrote, declared His comfort in your Grace that you were bland And affable to men of all estates, In hope to charm them from their hate of Spain. PHILIP. In hope to crush all heresy under Spain. But, Renard, I am sicker staying here Than any sea could make me passing hence, Tho' I be ever deadly sick at sea. So sick am I with biding for this child. Is it the fashion in this clime for women To go twelve months in bearing of a child? The nurses yawn'd, the cradle gaped, they led Processions, chanted litanies, clash'd their bells, Shot off their lying cannon, and her priests Have preach'd, the fools, of this fair prince to come; Till, by St. James, I find myself the fool. Why do you lift your eyebrow at me thus? RENARD. I never saw your Highness moved till now. PHILIP. So weary am I of this wet land of theirs, And every soul of man that breathes therein. RENARD. My liege, we must not drop the mask before The masquerade is over-- PHILIP. --Have I dropt it? I have but shown a loathing face to you, Who knew it from the first. _Enter_ MARY. MARY (_aside_). With Renard. Still Parleying with Renard, all the day with Renard, And scarce a greeting all the day for me-- And goes to-morrow. [_Exit_ MARY.