No More Learning

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.

RENARD. And be forgiven for it?

PHILIP. Simon Renard
Knows me too well to speak a single word
That could not be forgiven.

RENARD. Well, my liege,
Your Grace hath a most chaste and loving wife.

PHILIP. Why not?