Take up your dagger; put it in the sheath.
ELEANOR.
Might not your courtesy stoop to hand it me?
But crowns must bow when mitres sit so high.
Well--well--too costly to be left or lost.
[_Picks up the dagger_.
I had it from an Arab soldan, who,
When I was there in Antioch, marvell'd at
Our unfamiliar beauties of the west;
But wonder'd more at my much constancy
To the monk-king, Louis, our former burthen,
From whom, as being too kin, you know, my lord,
God's grace and Holy Church deliver'd us.
I think, time given, I could have talk'd him out of
His ten wives into one. Look at the hilt.
What excellent workmanship. In our poor west
We cannot do it so well.
BECKET.
We can do worse.
Madam, I saw your dagger at her throat;
I heard your savage cry.
ELEANOR.
Well acted, was it?
A comedy meant to seem a tragedy--
A feint, a farce. My honest lord, you are known
Thro' all the courts of Christendom as one
That mars a cause with over-violence.
You have wrong'd Fitzurse. I speak not of myself.
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