After a pause_.
ELEANOR.
My lord, we know you proud of your fine hand,
But having now admired it long enough,
We find that it is mightier than it seems--
At least mine own is frailer: you are laming it.
BECKET.
And lamed and maim'd to dislocation, better
Than raised to take a life which Henry bad me
Guard from the stroke that dooms thee after death
To wail in deathless flame.
ELEANOR.
Nor you, nor I
Have now to learn, my lord, that our good Henry
Says many a thing in sudden heats, which he
Gainsays by next sunrising--often ready
To tear himself for having said as much.
My lord, Fitzurse--
BECKET.
He too! what dost thou here?
Dares the bear slouch into the lion's den?
One downward plunge of his paw would rend away
Eyesight and manhood, life itself, from thee.
Go, lest I blast thee with anathema,
And make thee a world's horror.
FITZURSE.
My lord, I shall
Remember this.
BECKET.
I _do_ remember thee;
Lest I remember thee to the lion, go.
[_Exit_ FITZURSE.
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