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Of their own selves, they are wroth with

their own selves, And thence with others; then, who lights

the faggot ? Not the full faith, no, but the lurking

doubt. Old Rome, that first made martyrs in the

Church, Trembled for her own gods, for these

were tremblingBut when did our Rome tremble? Paget.

Did she not In Henry's time and Edward's? Pole.

What, my Lord ! The Church on Peter's rock ? never ! I

have seen A pine in Italy that cast its shadow Athwart a cataract ; firm stood the pineThe cataract shook the shadow. To my

mind, The cataract typed the headlong plunge

and fall Of heresy to the pit : the pine was Rome. You see, my Lords, It was the shadow of the Church that

trembled ; Your church was but the shadow of a

church, Wanting the Papal mitre. Gardiner (muttering). Here be tropes. Pole. And tropes are good to clothe a

naked truth, And make it look more seemly. Gardiner.

Tropes again ! Pole. You are hard to please. Then

without tropes, my Lord, An overmuch severeness, I repeat, When faith is wavering makes the waverer

pass Into more settled hatred of the doctrines Of those who rule, which hatred by-and-by Involves the ruler (thus there springs to

light

That Centaur of a monstrous Common

weal, The traitor-heretic) then tho' some may

quail, Yet others are that dare the stake and fire, And their strong torment bravely borne,

begets An admiration and an indignation, And hot desire to imitate ; so the plague Of schism spreads; were there but three

or four Of these misleaders, yet I would not say Burn ! and we cannot burn whole towns ;

they are many, As my Lord Paget says. Gardiner. Yet my Lord CardinalPole. I am your Legate; please you

let me finish. Methinks that under our Queen’s regimen We might go softlier than with crimson

rowel And streaming lash. When Herod

Henry first Began to batter at your English Church, This was the cause, and hence the judg.

ment on her. She seethed with such adulteries, and the

lives Of many among your churchmen were so

foul That heaven wept and earth blush'd. I

would advise That we should thoroughly cleanse the

Church within Before these bitter statutes be requicken’d. So after that when she once more is seen White as the light, the spotless bride of

Christ, Like Christ himself on Tabor, possibly The Lutheran may be won to her again ; Till when, my Lords, I counsel tolerance. Gardiner. What, if a mad dog bit

your hand, my Lord,

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Would you not chop the bitten finger off, Lest your whole body should madden

with the poison ? I would not, were I Queen, tolerate the

heretic, No, not an hour. The ruler of a land Is bounden by his power and place to see His people be not poison'd. Tolerate

them ! Why? do they tolerate you? Nay, many

of them Would burn-have burnt each other ;

call they not The one true faith, a loathsome idol

worship? Beware, Lord Legate, of a heavier crime Than heresy is itself ; beware, I say, Lest men accuse you of indifference To all faiths, all religion ; for you know Right well that you yourself have been

supposed Tainted with Lutheranism in Italy. Pole (angered). But you, my Lord,

beyond all supposition, In clear and open day were congruent With that vile Cranmer in the accursed lie Of good Queen Catherine's divorce—the

spring Of all those evils that have flow'd upon

Gardiner.

Ha! what! eh? But you, my Lord, a polish'd gentleman, A bookman, flying from the heat and

tussle, You lived among your vines and oranges, In your soft Italy yonder ! You were

sent for, You were appeal'd to, but you still

preferr'd Your learned leisure. As for what I did I suffer'd and repented. You, Lord

Legate And Cardinal-Deacon, have not now to

learn That ev'n St. Peter in his time of fear Denied his Master, ay, and thrice, my

Lord.
Pole. But not for five-and-twenty

years, my Lord.
Gardiner. Ha ! good ! it seems then

I was summon's hither But to be mock'd and baited. Speak,

friend Bonner, And tell this learned Legate he lacks zeal. The Church's evil is not as the King's, Cannot be heal'd by stroking. The mad

bite Must have the cautery-tell him--and at

once. What would'st thou do had'st thou his

power, thou That layest so long in heretic bonds with

me; Would'st thou not burn and blast them

root and branch ? Bonner. Ay, after you, my Lord. Gardiner. Nay, God's passion, before

me ! speak! Bonner. I am on fire until I see them

flame. Gardiner. Ay, the psalm-singing

weavers, cobblers, scumBut this most noble prince Plantagenet,

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Our good Queen's cousin--- dallying over

But not the force made them our mightiest

seas

kings.

Even when his brother's, nay, his noble

mother's, Head fell

Pole. Peace, madman ! Thou stirrest up a grief thou can'st not

fathom. Thou Christian Bishop, thou Lord

Chancellor of England ! no more rein upon thine

anger Than any child ! Thou mak'st me much

ashamed That I was for a moment wroth at thee. Mary. I come for counsel and ye give

me feuds, Like dogs that set to watch their master's

gate, Fall, when the thief is ev'n within the

walls To worrying one another. My Lord

Chancellor, You have an old trick of offending us; And but that you are art and part with us In purging heresy, well we might, for this Your violence and much roughness to the

Legate, Have shut you from our counsels.

Cousin Pole, You are fresh from brighter lands.

Retire with me. His Highness and myself (so you allow us) Will let you learn in peace and privacy What power this cooler sun of England

hath In breeding godless vermin. And pray

Heaven That you may see according to our sight. Come, cousin.

(Exeunt Queen and Pole, &c. Gardiner. Pole has the Plantagenet

face,

Fine eyes—but melancholy, irresolute--
A fine beard, Bonner, a very full fine

beard. But a weak mouth, an indeterminate

ha ? Bonner. Well, a weak mouth, per

chance. Gardiner. And not like thine To gorge a heretic whole, roasted or raw. Bonner. I'd do my best, my Lord;

but yet the Legate Is here as Pope and Master of the Church, And if he go not with you

Gardiner. Tut, Master Bishop, Our bashful Legate, saw'st not how he

flush'd ? Touch him upon his old heretical talk, He'll burn a diocese to prove his ortho

doxy. And let him call me truckler. In those

times, Thou knowest we had to dodge, or duck,

or die; I kept my head for use of Holy Church; And see you, we shall have to dodge

again, And let the Pope trample our rights, and

plunge His foreign fist into our island Church To plump the leaner pouch of Italy. For a time, for a time. Why? that these statutes may be put in

force, And that his fan may thoroughly purge

his floor. Bonner. So then you hold the PopeGardiner.

I hold the Pope ! What do I hold him? what do I hold the

Pope? Come, come, the morsel stuck-this

Cardinal's fault

I have gulpt it down. I am wholly for

the Pope, Utterly and altogether for the Pope, The Eternal Peter of the changeless chair, Crown'd slave of slaves, and mitred king

of kings, God upon earth! what more? what would

you have? Hence, let's be gone.

He knows not where he stands, which, if

this pass, We two shall have to teach him; let 'em

look to it, Cranmer and Hooper, Ridley and Latimer, Rogers and Ferrar, for their time is come, Their hour is hard at hand, their 'dies

Iræ,' Their ‘dies Illa,' whịch will test their sect. I feel it but a duty-you will find in it Pleasure as well as duty, worthy Bonner,To test their sect. Sir, I attend the Queen To crave most humble pardon—of her

most Royal, Infallible, Papal Legate-cousin.

[Exeunt.

Enter Usher. Usher. Well that you be not gone, My Lord. The Queen, most wroth at

first with you, Is now content to grant you full forgiveness, So that you crave full pardon of the Legate. I am sent to fetch you.

Gardiner. Doth Pole yield, sir, ha ! Did you hear 'em? were you by ? Usher.

I cannot tell you, His bearing is so courtly-delicate; And yet methinks he falters: their two

Graces Do so dear-cousin and royal-cousin him, So press on him the duty which as Legate He owes himself, and with such royal

smilesGardiner. Smiles that burn men.

Bonner, it will be carried. He falters, ha? 'fore God, we change and

change; Men now are bow'd and old, the doctors

tell you, At three-score years; then if we change

at all We needs must do it quickly; it is an age Of brief life, and brief purpose, and brief

patience, As I have shown to-day. I am sorry for it If Pole be like to turn. Our old friend

Cranmer, Your more especial love, hath turn'd so

often,

SCENE V.-WOODSTOCK. ELIZABETH, LADY IN WAITING. Lady. The colours of our Queen are

green and white, These fields are only green, they make

me gape.
Elizabeth. There's whitethorn, girl.

Lady. Ay, for an hour in May. But court is always May, buds out in

masques, Breaks into featherd merriments, and

flowers In silken pageants. Why do they keep

us here? Why still suspect your Grace ? Elizabeth.

Hard upon both. [Writes on the window with a diamond.

Much suspected, of me
Nothing proven can be.

Quoth Elizabeth, prisoner.
Lady. What hath your Highness

written?
Elizabeth. A true rhyme.
Lady. Cut with a diamond; so to last

like truth.
Elizabeth. Ay, if truth last.

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