I gave it you, and you your paramour;
She sends it back, as being dead to earth,
So dead henceforth to you.
HENRY.
Dead! you have murder'd her,
Found out her secret bower and murder'd her.
ELEANOR.
Your Becket knew the secret of your bower.
HENRY (_calling out_).
Ho there! thy rest of life is hopeless prison.
ELEANOR.
And what would my own Aquitaine say to that?
First, free thy captive from _her_ hopeless prison.
HENRY.
O devil, can I free her from the grave?
ELEANOR.
You are too tragic: both of us are players
In such a comedy as our court of Provence
Had laugh'd at. That's a delicate Latin lay
Of Walter Map: the lady holds the cleric
Lovelier than any soldier, his poor tonsure
A crown of Empire. Will you have it again?
(_Offering the cross. He dashes it down_.)
St. Cupid, that is too irreverent.
Then mine once more. (_Puts it on_.)
Your cleric hath your lady.
Nay, what uncomely faces, could he see you!
Foam at the mouth because King Thomas, lord
Not only of your vassals but amours,
Thro' chastest honour of the Decalogue
Hath used the full authority of his Church
To put her into Godstow nunnery.
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