BECKET.
Well, well, I swear, but not to please myself.

HENRY.
Whatever come between us?

BECKET.
What should come
Between us, Henry?

HENRY.
Nay--I know not, Thomas.

BECKET.
What need then? Well--whatever come between us. [_Going_.

HENRY.
A moment! thou didst help me to my throne
In Theobald's time, and after by thy wisdom
Hast kept it firm from shaking; but now I,
For my realm's sake, myself must be the wizard
To raise that tempest which will set it trembling
Only to base it deeper. I, true son
Of Holy Church--no croucher to the Gregories
That tread the kings their children underheel--
Must curb her; and the Holy Father, while
This Barbarossa butts him from his chair,
Will need my help--be facile to my hands.
Now is my time. Yet--lest there should be flashes