What chance
That he should ever spread into the man
Here in our silence? I have done my best.
I am not learn'd.
HENRY.
I am the King, his father,
And I will look to it. Is our secret ours?
Have you had any alarm? no stranger?
ROSAMUND.
No.
The warder of the bower hath given himself
Of late to wine. I sometimes think he sleeps
When he should watch; and yet what fear? the people
Believe the wood enchanted. No one comes,
Nor foe nor friend; his fond excess of wine
Springs from the loneliness of my poor bower,
Which weighs even on me.
HENRY.
Yet these tree-towers,
Their long bird-echoing minster-aisles,--the voice
Of the perpetual brook, these golden slopes
Of Solomon-shaming flowers--that was your saying,
All pleased you so at first.
ROSAMUND.
Not now so much.
My Anjou bower was scarce as beautiful.
But you were oftener there. I have none but you.
The brook's voice is not yours, and no flower, not
The sun himself, should he be changed to one,
Could shine away the darkness of that gap
Left by the lack of love.
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