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 should come to that.
ROSAMUND.
With her? with whom?
HENRY.
Life on the hand is naked gipsy-stuff;
Life on the face, the brows-clear innocence!
Vein'd marble--not a furrow yet--and hers
[_Muttering_.
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