But truth of story, which I glanced at, girl,
Is like a word that comes from olden days,
And passes thro' the peoples: every tongue
Alters it passing, till it spells and speaks
Quite other than at first.
LADY. I do not follow.
ELIZABETH. How many names in the long sweep of time
That so foreshortens greatness, may but hang
On the chance mention of some fool that once
Brake bread with us, perhaps: and my poor chronicle
Is but of glass. Sir Henry Bedingfield
May split it for a spite.
LADY. God grant it last,
And witness to your Grace's innocence,
Till doomsday melt it.
ELIZABETH. Or a second fire,
Like that which lately crackled underfoot
And in this very chamber, fuse the glass,
And char us back again into the dust
We spring from. Never peacock against rain
Scream'd as you did for water.
LADY. And I got it.
I woke Sir Henry--and he's true to you
I read his honest horror in his eyes.
ELIZABETH. Or true to you?
LADY. Sir Henry Bedingfield!
I will have no man true to me, your Grace,
But one that pares his nails; to me? the clown!
ELIZABETH. Out, girl! you wrong a noble gentleman.
LADY. For, like his cloak, his manners want the nap
And gloss of court; but of this fire he says.
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