And wastes more life. Stamp out the fire, or this
Will smoulder and re-flame, and burn the throne
Where you should sit with Philip: he will not come
Till she be gone.

MARY. Indeed, if that were true--
For Philip comes, one hand in mine, and one
Steadying the tremulous pillars of the Church--
But no, no, no. Farewell. I am somewhat faint
With our long talk. Tho' Queen, I am not Queen
Of mine own heart, which every now and then
Beats me half dead: yet stay, this golden chain--
My father on a birthday gave it me,
And I have broken with my father--take
And wear it as memorial of a morning
Which found me full of foolish doubts, and leaves me
As hopeful.

RENARD (_aside_). Whew--the folly of all follies
Is to be love-sick for a shadow. (_Aloud_) Madam,
This chains me to your service, not with gold,
But dearest links of love. Farewell, and trust me,
Philip is yours.
[_Exit_.

MARY. Mine--but not yet all mine.

_Enter_ USHER.

USHER. Your Council is in Session, please your Majesty.