I
could pity this poor world myself that it is no better ordered.
HENRY.
Dead is he, my Queen? What, altogether? Let me swear nay to that by
this cross on thy neck. God's eyes! what a lovely cross! what jewels!
ELEANOR.
Doth it please you? Take it and wear it on that hard heart of yours--
there.
[_Gives it to him_.
HENRY (_puts it on_).
On this left breast before so hard a heart,
To hide the scar left by thy Parthian dart.
ELEANOR.
Has my simple song set you jingling? Nay, if I took and translated
that hard heart into our Provencal facilities, I could so play about
it with the rhyme--
HENRY.
That the heart were lost in the rhyme and the matter in the metre. May
we not pray you, Madam, to spare us the hardness of your facility?
ELEANOR.
The wells of Castaly are not wasted upon the desert. We did but jest.
HENRY.
There's no jest on the brows of Herbert there. What is it, Herbert?
_Enter_ HERBERT OF BOSHAM.
HERBERT.
My liege, the good Archbishop is no more.
HENRY.
Peace to his soul!
HERBERT.
I left him with peace on his face--that sweet other-world smile, which
will be reflected in the spiritual body among the angels.
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