Crost and recrost, a venomous spider's web--
ROSAMUND (_springing up_).
Out of the cloud, my Sun--out of the eclipse
Narrowing my golden hour!
HENRY.
O Rosamund,
I would be true--would tell thee all--and something
I had to say--I love thee none the less--
Which will so vex thee.
ROSAMUND.
Something against _me_?
HENRY.
No, no, against myself.
ROSAMUND.
I will not hear it.
Come, come, mine hour! I bargain for mine hour.
I'll call thee little Geoffrey.
HENRY.
Call him!
ROSAMUND.
Geoffrey!
[_Enter_ GEOFFREY.
HENRY.
How the boy grows!
ROSAMUND.
Ay, and his brows are thine;
The mouth is only Clifford, my dear father.
GEOFFREY.
My liege, what hast thou brought me?
HENRY.
Venal imp!
What say'st thou to the Chancellorship of England?
GEOFFREY.
O yes, my liege.
HENRY.
'O yes, my liege!' He speaks
As if it were a cake of gingerbread.
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