HENRY.
True enough, my mind was set upon other matters.

ELEANOR.
What matters? State matters? love matters?

HENRY.
My love for thee, and thine for me.

ELEANOR.

Over! the sweet summer closes,
The reign of the roses is done;
Over and gone with the roses,
And over and gone with the sun.

Here; but our sun in Aquitaine lasts longer. I would I were in
Aquitaine again--your north chills me.

Over! the sweet summer closes,
And never a flower at the close;
Over and gone with the roses,
And winter again and the snows.

That was not the way I ended it first--but unsymmetrically,
preposterously, illogically, out of passion, without art--like a song
of the people. Will you have it? The last Parthian shaft of a forlorn
Cupid at the King's left breast, and all left-handedness and
under-handedness.