And never a flower at the close,
Over and gone with the roses,
Not over and gone with the rose.

True, one rose will outblossom the rest, one rose in a bower. I speak
after my fancies, for I am a Troubadour, you know, and won the violet
at Toulouse; but my voice is harsh here, not in tune, a nightingale
out of season; for marriage, rose or no rose, has killed the golden
violet.

BECKET.
Madam, you do ill to scorn wedded love.

ELEANOR.
So I do. Louis of France loved me, and I dreamed that I loved Louis
of France: and I loved Henry of England, and Henry of England dreamed
that he loved me; but the marriage-garland withers even with the
putting on, the bright link rusts with the breath of the first
after-marriage kiss, the harvest moon is the ripening of the harvest,
and the honeymoon is the gall of love; he dies of his honeymoon. I
could pity this poor world myself that it is no better ordered.

HENRY.
Dead is he, my Queen? What, altogether? Let me swear nay to that by
this cross on thy neck. God's eyes! what a lovely cross! what jewels!

ELEANOR.
Doth it please you? Take it and wear it on that hard heart of yours--
there.
[_Gives it to him_.