I must patch up a peace--
A piece in this long-tugged at, threadbare-worn
Quarrel of Crown and Church--to rend again.
His Holiness cannot steer straight thro' shoals,
Nor I. The citizen's heir hath conquer'd me
For the moment. So we make our peace with him.
[Enter_ Louis.
Brother of France, what shall be done with Becket?
LOUIS.
The holy Thomas! Brother, you have traffick'd
Between the Emperor and the Pope, between
The Pope and Antipope--a perilous game
For men to play with God.
HENRY.
Ay, ay, good brother,
They call you the Monk-King.
LOUIS.
Who calls me? she
That was my wife, now yours? You have her Duchy,
The point you aim'd at, and pray God she prove
True wife to you. You have had the better of us
In secular matters.
HENRY.
Come, confess, good brother,
You did your best or worst to keep her Duchy.
Only the golden Leopard printed in it
Such hold-fast claws that you perforce again
Shrank into France. Tut, tut! did we convene
This conference but to babble of our wives?
They are plagues enough in-door.
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