RENARD. Nay, your Grace, it hath not reach'd me.
I know not wherefore--some mischance of flood,
And broken bridge, or spavin'd horse, or wave
And wind at their old battle: he must have written.

MARY. But Philip never writes me one poor word.
Which in his absence had been all my wealth.
Strange in a wooer!

RENARD. Yet I know the Prince,
So your king-parliament suffer him to land,
Yearns to set foot upon your island shore.

MARY. God change the pebble which his kingly foot
First presses into some more costly stone
Than ever blinded eye. I'll have one mark it
And bring it me. I'll have it burnish'd firelike;
I'll set it round with gold, with pearl, with diamond.
Let the great angel of the church come with him;
Stand on the deck and spread his wings for sail!
God lay the waves and strow the storms at sea,
And here at land among the people! O Renard,
I am much beset, I am almost in despair.
Paget is ours. Gardiner perchance is ours;
But for our heretic Parliament--

RENARD. O Madam,
You fly your thoughts like kites. My master, Charles,
Bad you go softly with your heretics here,