MARY. My star! a baleful one.
I see but the black night, and hear the wolf.
What star?
RENARD. Your star will be your princely son,
Heir of this England and the Netherlands!
And if your wolf the while should howl for more,
We'll dust him from a bag of Spanish gold.
I do believe, I have dusted some already,
That, soon or late, your Parliament is ours.
MARY. Why do they talk so foully of your Prince,
Renard?
RENARD. The lot of Princes. To sit high
Is to be lied about.
MARY. They call him cold,
Haughty, ay, worse.
RENARD. Why, doubtless, Philip shows
Some of the bearing of your blue blood--still
All within measure--nay, it well becomes him.
MARY. Hath he the large ability of his father?
RENARD. Nay, some believe that he will go beyond him.
MARY. Is this like him?
RENARD. Ay, somewhat; but your Philip
Is the most princelike Prince beneath the sun.
This is a daub to Philip.
MARY. Of a pure life?
RENARD. As an angel among angels. Yea, by Heaven,
The text--Your Highness knows it, 'Whosoever
Looketh after a woman,' would not graze
The Prince of Spain. You are happy in him there,
Chaste as your Grace!
MARY. I am happy in him there.
RENARD. And would be altogether happy, Madam,
So that your sister were but look'd to closer.
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