BECKET.
Nay, let him be.

ELEANOR.
No, no, my Lord Archbishop,
'Tis known you are midwinter to all women,
But often in your chancellorship you served
The follies of the King.

BECKET.
No, not these follies!

ELEANOR.
My lord, Fitzurse beheld her in your lodging.

BECKET.
Whom?

ELEANOR.
Well--you know--the minion, Rosamund.

BECKET.
He had good eyes!

ELEANOR.
Then hidden in the street
He watch'd her pass with John of Salisbury
And heard her cry 'Where is this bower of mine?'

BECKET.