There was a paper thrown into the palace,
'The King hath wearied of his barren bride.'
She came upon it, read it, and then rent it,
With all the rage of one who hates a truth
He cannot but allow. Sire, I would have you--
What should I say, I cannot pick my words--
Be somewhat less--majestic to your Queen.
PHILIP. Am I to change my manners, Simon Renard,
Because these islanders are brutal beasts?
Or would you have me turn a sonneteer,
And warble those brief-sighted eyes of hers?
RENARD. Brief-sighted tho' they be, I have seen them, sire,
When you perchance were trifling royally
With some fair dame of court, suddenly fill
With such fierce fire--had it been fire indeed
It would have burnt both speakers.
PHILIP. Ay, and then?
RENARD. Sire, might it not be policy in some matter
Of small importance now and then to cede
A point to her demand?
PHILIP. Well, I am going.
RENARD. For should her love when you are gone, my liege,
Witness these papers, there will not be wanting
Those that will urge her injury--should her love--
And I have known such women more than one--
Veer to the counterpoint, and jealousy
Hath in it an alchemic force to fuse
Almost into one metal love and hate,--
And she impress her wrongs upon her Council,
And these again upon her Parliament--
We are not loved here, and would be then perhaps
Not so well holpen in our wars with France,
As else we might be--here she comes.
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