ROSAMUND.
Ay, but wait
Till his nose rises; he will be very king.
BECKET.
Ev'n so: but think not of the King: farewell!
ROSAMUND.
My lord, the city is full of armed men.
BECKET,
Ev'n so: farewell!
ROSAMUND.
I will but pass to vespers,
And breathe one prayer for my liege-lord the King,
His child and mine own soul, and so return.
BECKET.
Pray for me too: much need of prayer have I.
[ROSAMUND _kneels and goes_.
Dan John, how much we lose, we celibates,
Lacking the love of woman and of child.
JOHN OF SALISBURY.
More gain than loss; for of your wives you shall
Find one a slut whose fairest linen seems
Foul as her dust-cloth, if she used it--one
So charged with tongue, that every thread of thought
Is broken ere it joins--a shrew to boot,
Whose evil song far on into the night
Thrills to the topmost tile--no hope but death;
One slow, fat, white, a burthen of the hearth;
And one that being thwarted ever swoons
And weeps herself into the place of power;
And one an _uxor pauperis Ibyci_.
Pages:
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137