[blocks in formation]

Against these burnings.

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

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 overPhilip.

-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 meAnd 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

Philip. Ay.
Renard. And be forgiven for it?

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

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

Philip. Why not? The Queen of

Philip should be chaste.
Renard. Ay, but, my Lord, you

know what Virgil sings, Woman is various and most mutable.

Philip. She play the harlot ! never.

No, sire, no Not dream'd of by the rabidest gospeller. There was a paper thrown into the palace, · The King hath wearied of his barren

bride.' She came upon it, read it, and then rent it, With all the rage of one who hates a

truth He cannot but allow. Sire, I would

have you – What should I say, I cannot pick my

wordsBe somewhat less-majestic to your

Philip. Am I to change my manners,

Simon Renard,
Because these islanders are brutal beasts ?
Or would you have me turn a sonneteer,


And warble those brief-sighted eyes of

hers ? Renard. Brief-sighted tho they be,

I have seen them, sire, When you perchance were trifling royally With some fair dame of court, suddenly

fill With such fierce fire-- had it been fire

indeed It would have burnt both speakers. Philip.

Ay, and then ? Renard. Sire, might it not be policy

in some matter Of small importance now and then to

cede A point to her demand ? Philip.

Well, I am going. Renard. For should her love when

you are gone, my liege, Witness these papers, there will not be

wanting Those that will urge her injury-should

her loveAnd I have known such women more

than oneVeer to the counterpoint, and jealousy Hath in it an alchemic force to fuse Almost into one metal love and hate, And she impress her wrongs upon her

Council, And these again upon her Parliament We are not loved here, and would be

then perhaps Not so well holpen in our wars with

As else we might be—here she comes.

Is like the cleaving of a heart; one half Will flutter here, one there.

You say true, Madam. Mary. The Holy Virgin will not have

me yet Lose the sweet hope that I may bear a

prince. If such a prince were born and you not

here ! Philip. I should be here if such a

prince were born. Mary. But must you go?

Philip. Madam, you know my father, Retiring into cloistral solitude To yield the remnant of his years to

heaven, Will shift the yoke and weight of all the

world From off his neck to mine. We meet at

Brussels. But since mine absence will not be for long, Your Majesty shall go to Dover with me, And wait my coming back. Mary.

To Dover ? no, I am too feeble. I will go to Greenwich, So you will have me with you ; and there

watch All that is gracious in the breath of heaven Draw with your sails from our poor land,

and pass And leave me, Philip, with my prayers

for you. Philip. And doubtless I shall profit

by your prayers. Mary. Methinks that would you tarry

one day more (The news was sudden) I could mould

myself To bear your going better ; will you do it? Philip. "Madam, a day may sink or

save a realm. Mary. A day may save a heart from

breaking too.

Enter Mary.


O Philip! Nay, must you go indeed ? Philip.

Madam, I must. Mary. The parting of a husband and

a wife

Philip. Well, Simon Renard, shall we

stop a day? Renard. Your Grace's business will

not suffer, sire, For one day more, so far as I can tell. Philip. Then one day more to please

her Majesty Mary. The sunshine sweeps across

my life again. O if I knew you felt this parting, Philip, As I do!

Philip. By St. James I do protest, Upon the faith and honour of a Spaniard, I am vastly grieved to leave your Majesty. Simon, is supper ready? Renard.

Ay, my liege, I saw the covers laying.

Philip. Let us have it. (Exeunt.

By seeking justice at a stranger's hand Against my natural subject. King and

Queen, To whom he owes his loyalty after God, Shall these accuse him to a foreign prince? Death would not grieve him more. I

cannot be True to this realm of England and the

Together, says the heretic.

And there errs ;
As he hath ever err'd thro' vanity.
A secular kingdom is but as the body
Lacking a soul ; and in itself a beast.
The Holy Father in a secular kingdom
Is as the soul descending out of heaven
Into a body generate.

Write to him, then.
Pole. I will.
Mary. And sharply, Pole.
Pole. Here come the Cranmerites !




MARY, CARDINAL POLE. Mary. What have you there?

Pole. So please your Majesty, A long petition from the foreign exiles To spare the life of Cranmer. Bishop

Thirlby, And my Lord Paget and Lord William

Howard, Crave, in the same cause, hearing of your

Grace. Hath he not written himself-infatuatedTo sue you for his life ? Mary.

His life? Oh, no ; Not sued for that-he knows it were in

vain. But so much of the anti-papal leaven Works in him yet, he hath pray'd me not

to sully Mine own prerogative, and degrade the


Howard. Health to your Grace !

Good morrow, my Lord Cardinal; We make our humble prayer unto your

Grace That Cranmer may withdraw to foreign

parts, Or into private life within the realm. In several bills and declarations, Madam, He hath recanted all his heresies. Paget. Ay, ay; if Bonner have not forged the bills.

[Aside. Mary. Did not More die, and Fisher ?

he must burn. Howard. He hath recanted, Madam. Mary.

The better for him. He burns in Purgatory, not in Hell. Howard. Ay, ay, your Grace ; but it

was never seen That any one recanting thus at full,

As Cranmer hath, came to the fire on

Mary. It will be seen now, then.

Thirlby. O Madam, Madam ! I thus implore you, low upon my knees, To reach the hand of mercy to my friend. I have err'd with him ; with him I have

recanted. What human reason is there why my

friend Should meet with lesser mercy than my.

self? Mary. My Lord of Ely, this. After

a riot We hang the leaders, let their following

go. Cranmer is head and father of these here

sies, New learning as they call it ; yea, may

Forget me at most need when I forget
Her foul divorce—my sainted mother-

Howard. Ay, ay, but mighty doctors

doubted there. The Pope himself waver'd ; and more

than one
Row'd in that galley-Gardiner to wit,
Whom truly I deny not to have been
Your faithful friend and trusty councillor.
Hath not your Highness ever read his

His tractate upon True Obedience,
Writ by himself and Bonner ?

I will take
Such order with all bad, heretical books
That none shall hold them in his house

and live, Henceforward. No, my Lord.

Howard. Then never read it. The truth is here. Your father was a man Of such colossal kinghood, yet so cour


Except when wroth, you scarce could

meet his eye And hold your own; and were he wroth

indeed, You held it less, or not at all. I say, Your father had a will that beat men

down; Your father had a brain that beat men

downPole. Not me, my Lord. Howard. No, for you were not here ; You sit upon this fallen Cranmer's throne; And it would more become you, my Lord

Legate, To join a voice, so potent with her High

ness, To ours in plea for Cranmer than to stand On naked self-assertion. Mary.

All your voices Are waves on flint. The heretic must

burn. Howard. Yet once he saved your

Majesty's own life ; Stood out against the King in your behalf, At his own peril. Mary.

I know not if he did; And if he did I care not, my Lord Howard. My life is not so happy, no such boon, That I should spare to take a heretic

priest's, Who saved it or not saved. Why do you

vex me? Paget. Yet to save Cranmer were to

serve the Church, Your Majesty's I mean; he is effaced, Self-blotted out; so wounded in his

honour, He can but creep down into some dark

hole Like a hurt beast, and hide himself and

die ; But if you burn him, -well, your High

ness knows

God grant you ampler mercy at your call Than you have shown to Cranmer.

[Exeunt Lords. Pole.

After this, Your Grace will hardly care to overlook This same petition of the foreign exiles For Cranmer's life. Mary. Make out the writ to-night.


The saying, 'Martyr's blood-seed of

the Church.' Mary. Of the true Church ; but his is

none, nor will be.
You are too politic for me, my Lord Paget.
And if he have to live so loath'd a life,
It were more merciful to burn him now.
Thirlby. O yet relent. O, Madam,

if you knew him
As I do, ever gentle, and so gracious,
With all his learning -

Yet a heretic still. His learning makes his burning the more

just. Thirlby. So worshipt of all those that

came across him ; The stranger at his hearth, and all his

houseMary. His children and his concubine,

belike. Thirlby. To do him any wrong was to

beget A kindness from him, for his heart was

rich, Of such fine mould, that if you sow'd

therein The seed of Hate, it blossom'd Charity. Pole. After his kind it costs him

nothing,' there's An old world English adage to the point. These are but natural graces, my good

Bishop, Which in the Catholic garden are as

flowers, But on the heretic dunghill only weeds. Howard. Such weeds make dunghills

gracious. Mary.

Enough, my Lords. It is God's will, the Holy Father's will, And Philip's will, and mine, that he should

burn. He is pronounced anathema. Howard.

Farewell, Madam,


Cranmer. Last night, I dream'd the

faggots were alight,
And that myself was fasten'd to the stake,
And found it all a visionary flame,
Cool as the light in old decaying wood ;
And then King Harry look'd from out a

cloud, And bad me have good courage ; and I

heard An angel cry "There is more joy in

Heaven,'And after that, the trumpet of the dead.

[Trumpets without. Why, there are trumpets blowing now:

what is it?

Cole. Cranmer, I come to question

you again; Have you remain’d in the true Catholic

faith I left you in?

Cranmer. In the true Catholic faith, By Heaven's grace, I am more and more

confirm'd. Why are the trumpets blowing, Father

Cole. Cranmer, it is decided by the

That you to-day should read your recan-


« ElőzőTovább »