Make _me_ archbishop! Why, my liege, I know
Some three or four poor priests a thousand times
Fitter for this grand function. _Me_ archbishop!
God's favour and king's favour might so clash
That thou and I----That were a jest indeed!

HENRY.
Thou angerest me, man: I do not jest.

_Enter_ ELEANOR _and_ SIR REGINALD FITZURSE.

ELEANOR (_singing_).

Over! the sweet summer closes,
The reign of the roses is done--

HENRY (_to_ BECKET, _who is going_).
Thou shalt not go. I have not ended with thee.

ELEANOR (_seeing chart on table_).
This chart with the red line! her bower! whose bower?

HENRY.
The chart is not mine, but Becket's: take it, Thomas.

ELEANOR.
Becket! O--ay--and these chessmen on the floor--the king's crown
broken! Becket hath beaten thee again--and thou hast kicked down the
board. I know thee of old.