Act II - Page 2

hells.

ROSAMUND: And is that altogether royal?

HENRY: Traitress!

ROSAMUND: A faithful traitress to thy royal fame.

HENRY: Fame! what care I for fame? Spite, ignorance, envy, Yea, honesty too, paint her what way they will. Fame of to-day is infamy to-morrow; Infamy of to-day is fame to-morrow; And round and round again. What matters? Royal--I mean to leave the royalty of my crown Unlessen'd to mine heirs.

ROSAMUND: Still--thy fame too: I say that should be royal.

HENRY: And I say, I care not for thy saying.

ROSAMUND: And I say, I care not for thy saying. A greater King Than thou art, Love, who cares not for the word, Makes 'care not'--care. There have I spoken true?

HENRY: Care dwell with me for ever, when I cease to care for thee as ever!

ROSAMUND: No need! no need!...There is a bench. Come, wilt thou sit?... My bank Of wild-flowers [he sits]. At thy feet!

[She sits at his feet.

HENRY: I had them clear a royal pleasaunce for thee, in the wood, Not leave these countryfolk at court.

ROSAMUND: I brought them In from the wood, and set them here. I love them More than the garden flowers, that seem at most Sweet guests, or foreign cousins, not half speaking The language of the land. I love them too, Yes. But, my liege, I am sure, of all the roses-- Shame fall on those who gave it a dog's name-- This wild one (picking a briar-rose)--nay, I shall not prick myself-- Is sweetest. Do but smell!

HENRY: Thou rose of the world! Thou rose of all the roses!

[Muttering.

I am not worthy of her--this beast-body That God has plunged my soul in--I, that taking The Fiend's advantage of a throne, so long Have wander'd among women,--a foul stream Thro' fever-breeding levels,--at her side, Among these happy dales, run clearer, drop The mud I carried, like yon brook, and glass The faithful face of heaven--

[Looking at her, and unconsciously aloud,

--thine! thine!

ROSAMUND: I know it.

HENRY (muttering). Not hers. We have but one bond, her hate of BECKET:

ROSAMUND (half hearing). Nay! nay! what art thou muttering? I hate Becket?

HENRY (muttering). A sane and natural loathing for a soul Purer, and truer and nobler than herself; And mine a bitterer illegitimate hate, A bastard hate born of a former love.

ROSAMUND: My fault to name him! O let the hand of one To whom thy voice is all her music, stay it But for a breath.

[Puts her hand before his lips.

Speak only of thy love. Why there--like some loud beggar at thy gate-- The happy boldness of this hand hath won it Love's alms, thy kiss (looking at her hand)--Sacred! I'll kiss it too.

[Kissing it.

There! wherefore dost thou so peruse it? Nay, There may be crosses in my line of life.

HENRY: Not half her hand--no hand to mate with her, If it