[_Exit_ HEATH.
_Enter_ PHILIP.
PHILIP. Sir Nicholas tells you true,
And you must look to Calais when I go.
MARY. Go? must you go, indeed--again--so soon?
Why, nature's licensed vagabond, the swallow,
That might live always in the sun's warm heart,
Stays longer here in our poor north than you:--
Knows where he nested--ever comes again.
PHILIP. And, Madam, so shall I.
MARY. O, will you? will you?
I am faint with fear that you will come no more.
PHILIP. Ay, ay; but many voices call me hence.
MARY. Voices--I hear unhappy rumours--nay,
I say not, I believe. What voices call you
Dearer than mine that should be dearest to you?
Alas, my Lord! what voices and how many?
PHILIP. The voices of Castille and Aragon,
Granada, Naples, Sicily, and Milan,--
The voices of Franche-Comte, and the Netherlands,
The voices of Peru and Mexico,
Tunis, and Oran, and the Philippines,
And all the fair spice-islands of the East.
MARY (_admiringly_).
You are the mightiest monarch upon earth,
I but a little Queen: and, so indeed,
Need you the more.
PHILIP. A little Queen! but when
I came to wed your majesty, Lord Howard,
Sending an insolent shot that dash'd the seas
Upon us, made us lower our kingly flag
To yours of England.
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