No More Learning

Ay, sir, but in statesmanship
To strike too soon is oft to miss the blow.
Thou knowest I bad my chaplain, Castro, preach
Against these burnings.

RENARD. And the Emperor
Approved you, and when last he wrote, declared
His comfort in your Grace that you were bland
And affable to men of all estates,
In hope to charm them from their hate of Spain.

PHILIP. In hope to crush all heresy under Spain.
But, Renard, I am sicker staying here
Than any sea could make me passing hence,
Tho' I be ever deadly sick at sea.
So sick am I with biding for this child.
Is it the fashion in this clime for women
To go twelve months in bearing of a child?
The nurses yawn'd, the cradle gaped, they led
Processions, chanted litanies, clash'd their bells,
Shot off their lying cannon, and her priests
Have preach'd, the fools, of this fair prince to come;
Till, by St. James, I find myself the fool.
Why do you lift your eyebrow at me thus?

RENARD. I never saw your Highness moved till now.

PHILIP.
So weary am I of this wet land of theirs,
And every soul of man that breathes therein.

RENARD. My liege, we must not drop the mask before
The masquerade is over--

PHILIP. --Have I dropt it?
I have but shown a loathing face to you,
Who knew it from the first.

_Enter_ MARY.

MARY (_aside_). With Renard. Still
Parleying with Renard, all the day with Renard,
And scarce a greeting all the day for me--
And goes to-morrow.
[_Exit_ MARY.

PHILIP (_to_ RENARD, _who advances to him_).
Well, sir, is there more?

RENARD (_who has perceived the QUEEN_).
May Simon Renard speak a single word?

PHILIP. Ay.