RENARD. Not prettily put? I mean, my pretty maiden,
A pretty man for such a pretty maiden.
ALICE. My Lord of Devon is a pretty man.
I hate him. Well, but if I have, what then?
RENARD. Then, pretty maiden, you should know that whether
A wind be warm or cold, it serves to fan
A kindled fire.
ALICE. According to the song.
His friends would praise him, I believed 'em,
His foes would blame him, and I scorn'd 'em,
His friends--as Angels I received 'em,
His foes--the Devil had suborn'd 'em.
RENARD. Peace, pretty maiden.
I hear them stirring in the Council Chamber.
Lord Paget's 'Ay' is sure--who else? and yet,
They are all too much at odds to close at once
In one full-throated No! Her Highness comes.
_Enter_ MARY.
ALICE. How deathly pale!--a chair, your Highness
[_Bringing one to the_ QUEEN.
RENARD. Madam,
The Council?
MARY. Ay! My Philip is all mine.
[_Sinks into chair, half fainting_.
ACT II
SCENE I.--ALINGTON CASTLE.
SIR THOMAS WYATT. I do not hear from Carew or the Duke
Of Suffolk, and till then I should not move.
The Duke hath gone to Leicester; Carew stirs
In Devon: that fine porcelain Courtenay,
Save that he fears he might be crack'd in using,
(I have known a semi-madman in my time
So fancy-ridd'n) should be in Devon too.
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