HENRY.
Ay--
Richard, if he _be_ mine--I hope him mine.
But thou art like enough to make him thine.
ELEANOR.
Becket is like enough to make all his.
HENRY.
Methought I had recover'd of the Becket,
That all was planed and bevell'd smooth again,
Save from some hateful cantrip of thine own.
ELEANOR.
I will go live and die in Aquitaine.
I dream'd I was the consort of a king,
Not one whose back his priest has broken.
HENRY.
What!
Is the end come? You, will you crown my foe
My victor in mid-battle? I will be
Sole master of my house. The end is mine.
What game, what juggle, what devilry are you playing?
Why do you thrust this Becket on me again?
ELEANOR.
Why? for I _am_ true wife, and have my fears
Lest Becket thrust you even from your throne.
Do you know this cross, my liege?
HENRY (_turning his head_).
Away! Not I.
ELEANOR.
Not ev'n the central diamond, worth, I think,
Half of the Antioch whence I had it.
HENRY.
That?
ELEANOR.
Pages:
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129