Tut, the chance gone,
She lives--but not for him; one point is gain'd.
O I, that thro' the Pope divorced King Louis,
Scorning his monkery,--I that wedded Henry,
Honouring his manhood--will he not mock at me
The jealous fool balk'd of her will--with _him_?
But he and he must never meet again.
Reginald Fitzurse!
_Re-enter_ FITZURSE.
FITZURSE.
Here, Madam, at your pleasure.
ELEANOR.
My pleasure is to have a man about me.
Why did you slink away so like a cur?
FITZURSE.
Madam, I am as much man as the King.
Madam, I fear Church-censures like your King.
ELEANOR.
He grovels to the Church when he's black-blooded,
But kinglike fought the proud archbishop,--kinglike
Defied the Pope, and, like his kingly sires,
The Normans, striving still to break or bind
The spiritual giant with our island laws
And customs, made me for the moment proud
Ev'n of that stale Church-bond which link'd me with him
To bear him kingly sons. I am not so sure
But that I love him still. Thou as much man!
No more of that; we will to France and be
Beforehand with the King, and brew from out
This Godstow-Becket intermeddling such
A strong hate-philtre as may madden him--madden
Against his priest beyond all hellebore.
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