That palate is insane which cannot tell
A good dish from a bad, new wine from old.
HENRY.
Well, who loves wine loves woman.
BECKET.
So I do.
Men are God's trees, and women are God's flowers;
And when the Gascon wine mounts to my head,
The trees are all the statelier, and the flowers
Are all the fairer.
HENRY.
And thy thoughts, thy fancies?
BECKET.
Good dogs, my liege, well train'd, and easily call'd
Off from the game.
HENRY.
Save for some once or twice,
When they ran down the game and worried it.
BECKET.
No, my liege, no!--not once--in God's name, no!
HENRY.
Nay, then, I take thee at thy word--believe thee
The veriest Galahad of old Arthur's hall.
And so this Rosamund, my true heart-wife,
Not Eleanor--she whom I love indeed
As a woman should be loved--Why dost thou smile
So dolorously?
BECKET.
My good liege, if a man
Wastes himself among women, how should he love
A woman, as a woman should be loved?
HENRY.
How shouldst thou know that never hast loved one?
Come, I would give her to thy care in England
When I am out in Normandy or Anjou.
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