HENRY (_puts it on_).

On this left breast before so hard a heart,
To hide the scar left by thy Parthian dart.

ELEANOR.
Has my simple song set you jingling? Nay, if I took and translated
that hard heart into our Provencal facilities, I could so play about
it with the rhyme--

HENRY.
That the heart were lost in the rhyme and the matter in the metre. May
we not pray you, Madam, to spare us the hardness of your facility?

ELEANOR.
The wells of Castaly are not wasted upon the desert. We did but jest.

HENRY.
There's no jest on the brows of Herbert there. What is it, Herbert?

_Enter_ HERBERT OF BOSHAM.

HERBERT.
My liege, the good Archbishop is no more.

HENRY.
Peace to his soul!

HERBERT.