SCENE VI.—LONDON. A ROOM IN THE PALACE.LORD PETREandLORD WILLIAM HOWARD.
PETRE. You cannot see the Queen. Renard denied her,Ev'n now to me.HOWARD. Their Flemish go-betweenAnd all-in-all. I came to thank her MajestyFor freeing my friend Bagenhall from the Tower;A grace to me! Mercy, that herb-of-grace,Flowers now but seldom.PETRE. Only now perhaps.Because the Queen hath been three days in tearsFor Philip's going—like the wild hedge-roseOf a soft winter, possible, not probable,However you have prov'n it.HOWARD. I must see her.EnterRENARD.RENARD. My Lords, you cannot see her Majesty.HOWARD. Why then the King! for I would have him bring itHome to the leisure wisdom of his Queen,Before he go, that since these statutes past,Gardiner out-Gardiners Gardiner in his heat,Bonner cannot out-Bonner his own self—Beast!—but they play with fire as children do,And burn the house. I know that these are breedingA fierce resolve and fixt heart-hate in menAgainst the King, the Queen, the Holy Father,The faith itself. Can I not see him?RENARD. Not now.And in all this, my Lord, her MajestyIs flint of flint, you may strike fire from her,Not hope to melt her. I will give your message.[ExeuntPETREandHOWARD.EnterPHILIP(musing)PHILIP. She will not have Prince Philibert of Savoy,I talk'd with her in vain—says she will liveAnd die true maid—a goodly creature too.Wouldshehad been the Queen! yet she must have him;She troubles England: that she breathes in EnglandIs life and lungs to every rebel birthThat passes out of embryo.Simon Renard!This Howard, whom they fear, what was he saying?RENARD. What your imperial father said, my liege,To deal with heresy gentlier. Gardiner burns,And Bonner burns; and it would seem this peopleCare more for our brief life in their wet land,Than yours in happier Spain. I told my LordHe should not vex her Highness; she would sayThese are the means God works with, that His churchMay flourish.PHILIP. Ay, sir, but in statesmanshipTo strike too soon is oft to miss the blow.Thou knowest I bad my chaplain, Castro, preachAgainst these burnings.RENARD. And the EmperorApproved you, and when last he wrote, declaredHis comfort in your Grace that you were blandAnd 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 hereThan 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 womenTo go twelve months in bearing of a child?The nurses yawn'd, the cradle gaped, they ledProcessions, chanted litanies, clash'd their bells,Shot off their lying cannon, and her priestsHave 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 beforeThe masquerade is over—PHILIP. —Have I dropt it?I have but shown a loathing face to you,Who knew it from the first.EnterMARY.MARY (aside). With Renard. StillParleying with Renard, all the day with Renard,And scarce a greeting all the day for me—And goes to-morrow.[ExitMARY.PHILIP (toRENARD,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 RenardKnows me too well to speak a single wordThat could not be forgiven.RENARD. Well, my liege,Your Grace hath a most chaste and loving wife.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.RENARD. 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 truthHe cannot but allow. Sire, I would have you—What should I say, I cannot pick my words—Be somewhat less—majestic to your Queen.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 royallyWith some fair dame of court, suddenly fillWith such fierce fire—had it been fire indeedIt would have burnt both speakers.PHILIP. Ay, and then?RENARD. Sire, might it not be policy in some matterOf small importance now and then to cedeA 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 wantingThose that will urge her injury—should her love—And I have known such women more than one—Veer to the counterpoint, and jealousyHath in it an alchemic force to fuseAlmost 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 perhapsNot so well holpen in our wars with France,As else we might be—here she comes.EnterMARY.MARY. O Philip!Nay, must you go indeed?PHILIP. Madam, I must.MARY. The parting of a husband and a wifeIs like the cleaving of a heart; one halfWill flutter here, one there.PHILIP. You say true, Madam.MARY. The Holy Virgin will not have me yetLose 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 solitudeTo yield the remnant of his years to heaven,Will shift the yoke and weight of all the worldFrom 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 watchAll that is gracious in the breath of heavenDraw with your sails from our poor land, and passAnd 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 myselfTo 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.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.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.—A ROOM IN THE PALACE.MARY, CARDINAL POLE.
MARY. What have you there?POLE. So please your Majesty,A long petition from the foreign exilesTo 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—infatuated—To 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 leavenWorks in him yet, he hath pray'd me not to sullyMine own prerogative, and degrade the realmBy seeking justice at a stranger's handAgainst 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 beTrue to this realm of England and the PopeTogether, says the heretic.POLE. And there errs;As he hath ever err'd thro' vanity.A secular kingdom is but as the bodyLacking a soul; and in itself a beast.The Holy Father in a secular kingdomIs as the soul descending out of heavenInto a body generate.MARY. Write to him, then.POLE. I will.MARY. And sharply, Pole.POLE. Here come the Cranmerites!EnterTHIRLBY, LORD PAGET, LORD WILLIAM HOWARD.HOWARD. Health to your Grace! Good morrow, my Lord Cardinal;We make our humble prayer unto your GraceThat 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 seenThat any one recanting thus at full,As Cranmer hath, came to the fire on earth.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 friendShould meet with lesser mercy than myself?MARY. My Lord of Ely, this. After a riotWe hang the leaders, let their following go.Cranmer is head and father of these heresies,New learning as they call it; yea, may GodForget me at most need when I forgetHer foul divorce—my sainted mother—No!—HOWARD. Ay, ay, but mighty doctors doubted there.The Pope himself waver'd; and more than oneRow'd in that galley—Gardiner to wit,Whom truly I deny not to have beenYour faithful friend and trusty councillor.Hath not your Highness ever read his book.His tractate upon True Obedience,Writ by himself and Bonner?MARY. I will takeSuch order with all bad, heretical booksThat 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 manOf such colossal kinghood, yet so courteous,Except when wroth, you scarce could meet his eyeAnd 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 down—POLE. 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 Highness,To ours in plea for Cranmer than to standOn naked self-assertion.MARY. All your voicesAre 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 holeLike a hurt beast, and hide himself and die;But if you burn him,—well, your Highness knowsThe 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 himAs I do, ever gentle, and so gracious,With all his learning—MARY. 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 house—MARY. His children and his concubine, belike.THIRLBY. To do him any wrong was to begetA kindness from him, for his heart was rich,Of such fine mould, that if you sow'd thereinThe seed of Hate, it blossom'd Charity.POLE. 'After his kind it costs him nothing,' there'sAn 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,God grant you ampler mercy at your callThan you have shown to Cranmer.[ExeuntLORDS.POLE. After this,Your Grace will hardly care to overlookThis same petition of the foreign exilesFor Cranmer's life.MARY. Make out the writ to-night.[Exeunt.
SCENE II.—OXFORD. CRANMER IN PRISON.
CRANMER. Last night, I dream'd the faggots were alight,And that myself was fasten'd to the stake, IAnd 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 heardAn 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?EnterFATHER COLE.COLE. Cranmer, I come to question you again;Have you remain'd in the true Catholic faithI 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?COLE. Cranmer, it is decided by the CouncilThat you to-day should read your recantationBefore the people in St. Mary's Church.And there be many heretics in the town,Who loathe you for your late return to Rome,And might assail you passing through the street,And tear you piecemeal: so you have a guard.CRANMER. Or seek to rescue me. I thank the Council.COLE. Do you lack any money?CRANMER. Nay, why should I?The prison fare is good enough for me.COLE. Ay, but to give the poor.CRANMER. Hand it me, then!I thank you.COLE. For a little space, farewell;Until I see you in St. Mary's Church.[ExitCOLE.CRANMER. It is against all precedent to burnOne who recants; they mean to pardon me.To give the poor—they give the poor who die.Well, burn me or not burn me I am fixt;It is but a communion, not a mass:A holy supper, not a sacrifice;No man can make his Maker—Villa Garcia.EnterVILLA GARCIA.VILLA GARCIA. Pray you write out this paper for me, Cranmer.CRANMER. Have I not writ enough to satisfy you?VILLA GARCIA. It is the last.CRANMER. Give it me, then.[He writes.VILLA GARCIA. Now sign.CRANMER. I have sign'd enough, and I will sign no more.VILLA GARCIA. It is no more than what you have sign'd already,The public form thereof.CRANMER. It may be so;I sign it with my presence, if I read it.VILLA GARCIA. But this is idle of you. Well, sir, well,You are to beg the people to pray for you;Exhort them to a pure and virtuous life;Declare the Queen's right to the throne; confessYour faith before all hearers; and retractThat Eucharistic doctrine in your book.Will you not sign it now?CRANMER. No, Villa Garcia,I sign no more. Will they have mercy on me?VILLA GARCIA. Have you good hopes of mercy!So, farewell.[Exit.CRANMER. Good hopes, not theirs, have I that I am fixt,Fixt beyond fall; however, in strange hours,After the long brain-dazing colloquies,And thousand-times recurring argumentOf those two friars ever in my prison,When left alone in my despondency,Without a friend, a book, my faith would seemDead or half-drown'd, or else swam heavilyAgainst the huge corruptions of the Church,Monsters of mistradition, old enoughTo scare me into dreaming, 'what am I,Cranmer, against whole ages?' was it so,Or am I slandering my most inward friend,To veil the fault of my most outward foe—The soft and tremulous coward in the flesh?O higher, holier, earlier, purer church,I have found thee and not leave thee any more.It is but a communion, not a mass—No sacrifice, but a life-giving feast!(Writes.) So, so; this will I say—thus will I pray.[Puts up the paper.EnterBONNER.BONNER. Good day, old friend; what, you look somewhat worn;And yet it is a day to test your healthEv'n at the best: I scarce have spoken with youSince when?—your degradation. At your trialNever stood up a bolder man than you;You would not cap the Pope's commissioner—Your learning, and your stoutness, and your heresy,Dumbfounded half of us. So, after that,We had to dis-archbishop and unlord,And make you simple Cranmer once again.The common barber dipt your hair, and IScraped from your finger-points the holy oil;And worse than all, you had to kneel tome;Which was not pleasant for you, Master Cranmer.Now you, that would not recognise the Pope,And you, that would not own the Real Presence,Have found a real presence in the stake,Which frights you back into the ancient faith:And so you have recanted to the Pope.How are the mighty fallen, Master Cranmer!CRANMER. You have been more fierce against the Pope than I;But why fling back the stone he strikes me with?[Aside.O Bonner, if I ever did you kindness—Power hath been given you to try faith by fire—Pray you, remembering how yourself have changed,Be somewhat pitiful, after I have gone,To the poor flock—to women and to children—That when I was archbishop held with me.BONNER. Ay—gentle as they call you—live or die!Pitiful to this pitiful heresy?I must obey the Queen and Council, man.Win thro' this day with honour to yourself,And I'll say something for you—so—good-bye.[Exit.CRANMER. This hard coarse man of old hath crouch'd to meTill I myself was half ashamed for him.EnterTHIRLBY.Weep not, good Thirlby.THIRLBY. Oh, my Lord, my Lord!My heart is no such block as Bonner's is:Who would not weep?CRANMER. Why do you so my—lord me,Who am disgraced?THIRLBY. On earth; but saved in heavenBy your recanting.CRANMER. Will they burn me, Thirlby?THIRLBY. Alas, they will; these burnings will not helpThe purpose of the faith; but my poor voiceAgainst them is a whisper to the roarOf a spring-tide.CRANMER. And they will surely burn me?THIRLBY. Ay; and besides, will have you in the churchRepeat your recantation in the earsOf all men, to the saving of their souls,Before your execution. May God help youThro' that hard hour!CRANMER. And may God bless you, Thirlby!Well, they shall hear my recantation there.[ExitTHIRLBY.Disgraced, dishonour'd!—not by them, indeed,By mine own self—by mine own hand!O thin-skinn'd hand and jutting veins, 'twas youThat sign'd the burning of poor Joan of Kent;But then she was a witch. You have written much,But you were never raised to plead for Frith,Whose dogmas I have reach'd: he was deliver'dTo the secular arm to burn; and there was Lambert;Who can foresee himself? truly these burnings,As Thirlby says, are profitless to the burners,And help the other side. You shall burn too,Burn first when I am burnt.Fire—inch by inch to die in agony! LatimerHad a brief end—not Ridley. Hooper burn'dThree-quarters of an hour. Will my faggotsBe wet as his were? It is a day of rain.I will not muse upon it.My fancy takes the burner's part, and makesThe fire seem even crueller than it is.No, I not doubt that God will give me strength,Albeit I have denied him.EnterSOTOandVILLA GARCIA.VILLA GARCIA. We are readyTo take you to St. Mary's, Master Cranmer.CRANMER. And I: lead on; ye loose me from my bonds.[Exeunt.
SCENE III.—ST. MARY'S CHURCH.COLEin the Pulpit, LORD WILLIAMS OF THAMEpresiding. LORD WILLIAMHOWARD, LORD PAGET,and others. CRANMERenters betweenSOTOandVILLA GARCIA,and the whole Choir strike up'Nunc Dimittis.' CRANMERis set upon a Scaffold before the people.
COLE. Behold him—[A pause: people in the foreground.PEOPLE. Oh, unhappy sight!FIRST PROTESTANT. See how the tears run down his fatherly face.SECOND PROTESTANT. James, didst thou ever see a carrion crow Standwatching a sick beast before he dies?FIRST PROTESTANT. Him perch'd up there? I wish some thunderbolt Wouldmake this Cole a cinder, pulpit and all.COLE. Behold him, brethren: he hath cause to weep!—So have we all: weep with him if ye will,Yet—It is expedient for one man to die,Yea, for the people, lest the people die.Yet wherefore should he die that hath return'dTo the one Catholic Universal Church,Repentant of his errors?PROTESTANTmurmurs. Ay, tell us that.COLE. Those of the wrong side will despise the man,Deeming him one that thro' the fear of deathGave up his cause, except he seal his faithIn sight of all with flaming martyrdom.CRANMER. Ay.COLE. Ye hear him, and albeit there may seemAccording to the canons pardon dueTo him that so repents, yet are there causesWherefore our Queen and Council at this timeAdjudge him to the death. He hath been a traitor,A shaker and confounder of the realm;And when the King's divorce was sued at Rome,He here, this heretic metropolitan,As if he had been the Holy Father, satAnd judged it. Did I call him heretic?A huge heresiarch! never was it knownThat any man so writing, preaching so,So poisoning the Church, so long continuing,Hath found his pardon; therefore he must die,For warning and example.Other reasonsThere be for this man's ending, which our QueenAnd Council at this present deem it notExpedient to be known.PROTESTANTmurmurs. I warrant you.COLE. Take therefore, all, example by this man,For if our Holy Queen not pardon him,Much less shall others in like cause escape,That all of you, the highest as the lowest,May learn there is no power against the Lord.There stands a man, once of so high degree,Chief prelate of our Church, archbishop, firstIn Council, second person in the realm,Friend for so long time of a mighty King;And now ye see downfallen and debasedFrom councillor to caitiff—fallen so low,The leprous flutterings of the byway, scumAnd offal of the city would not changeEstates with him; in brief, so miserable,There is no hope of better left for him,No place for worse.Yet, Cranmer, be thou glad.This is the work of God. He is glorifiedIn thy conversion: lo! thou art reclaim'd;He brings thee home: nor fear but that to-dayThou shalt receive the penitent thief's award,And be with Christ the Lord in Paradise.Remember how God made the fierce fire seemTo those three children like a pleasant dew.Remember, too,The triumph of St. Andrew on his cross,The patience of St. Lawrence in the fire.Thus, if thou call on God and all the saints,God will beat down the fury of the flame,Or give thee saintly strength to undergo.And for thy soul shall masses here be sungBy every priest in Oxford. Pray for him.CRANMER. Ay, one and all, dear brothers, pray for me;Pray with one breath, one heart, one soul for me.COLE. And now, lest anyone among you doubtThe man's conversion and remorse of heart,Yourselves shall hear him speak. Speak, Master Cranmer,Fulfil your promise made me, and proclaimYour true undoubted faith, that all may hear.CRANMER. And that I will. O God, Father of Heaven!O Son of God, Redeemer of the world!O Holy Ghost! proceeding from them both,Three persons and one God, have mercy on me,Most miserable sinner, wretched man.I have offended against heaven and earthMore grievously than any tongue can tell.Then whither should I flee for any help?I am ashamed to lift my eyes to heaven,And I can find no refuge upon earth.Shall I despair then?—God forbid! O God,For thou art merciful, refusing noneThat come to Thee for succour, unto Thee,Therefore, I come; humble myself to Thee;Saying, O Lord God, although my sins be great,For thy great mercy have mercy! O God the Son,Not for slight faults alone, when thou becamestMan in the Flesh, was the great mystery wrought;O God the Father, not for little sinsDidst thou yield up thy Son to human death;But for the greatest sin that can be sinn'd,Yea, even such as mine, incalculable,Unpardonable,—sin against the light,The truth of God, which I had proven and known.Thy mercy must be greater than all sin.Forgive me, Father, for no merit of mine,But that Thy name by man be glorified,And Thy most blessed Son's, who died for man.Good people, every man at time of deathWould fain set forth some saying that may liveAfter his death and better humankind;For death gives life's last word a power to live,And, like the stone-cut epitaph, remainAfter the vanish'd voice, and speak to men.God grant me grace to glorify my God!And first I say it is a grievous case,Many so dote upon this bubble world,Whose colours in a moment break and fly,They care for nothing else. What saith St. John:'Love of this world is hatred against God.'Again, I pray you all that, next to God,You do unmurmuringly and willinglyObey your King and Queen, and not for dreadOf these alone, but from the fear of HimWhose ministers they be to govern you.Thirdly, I pray you all to live togetherLike brethren; yet what hatred Christian menBear to each other, seeming not as brethren,But mortal foes! But do you good to allAs much as in you lieth. Hurt no man moreThan you would harm your loving natural brotherOf the same roof, same breast. If any do,Albeit he think himself at home with God,Of this be sure, he is whole worlds away.PROTESTANTmurmurs. What sort of brothers then be those that lustTo burn each other?WILLIAMS. Peace among you, there!CRANMER. Fourthly, to those that own exceeding wealth,Remember that sore saying spoken onceBy Him that was the truth, 'How hard it isFor the rich man to enter into Heaven;'Let all rich men remember that hard word.I have not time for more: if ever, nowLet them flow forth in charity, seeing nowThe poor so many, and all food so dear.Long have I lain in prison, yet have heardOf all their wretchedness. Give to the poor,Ye give to God. He is with us in the poor.And now, and forasmuch as I have comeTo the last end of life, and thereuponHangs all my past, and all my life to be,Either to live with Christ in Heaven with joy,Or to be still in pain with devils in hell;And, seeing in a moment, I shall find[Pointing upwards.Heaven or else hell ready to swallow me,[Pointing downwards.I shall declare to you my very faithWithout all colour.COLE. Hear him, my good brethren.CRANMER. I do believe in God, Father of all;In every article of the Catholic faith,And every syllable taught us by our Lord,His prophets, and apostles, in the Testaments,Both Old and New.COLE. Be plainer, Master Cranmer.CRANMER. And now I come to the great cause that weighsUpon my conscience more than anythingOr said or done in all my life by me;For there be writings I have set abroadAgainst the truth I knew within my heart,Written for fear of death, to save my life,If that might be; the papers by my handSign'd since my degradation—by this hand[Holding out his right hand.Written and sign'd—I here renounce them all;And, since my hand offended, having writtenAgainst my heart, my hand shall first be burnt,So I may come to the fire.[Dead silence.PROTESTANTmurmurs.FIRST PROTESTANT. I knew it would be so.SECOND PROTESTANT. Our prayers are heard!THIRD PROTESTANT. God bless him!CATHOLICmurmurs. Out upon him! out upon him!Liar! dissembler! traitor! to the fire!WILLIAMS (raising his voice).You know that you recanted all you saidTouching the sacrament in that same bookYou wrote against my Lord of Winchester;Dissemble not; play the plain Christian man.CRANMER. Alas, my Lord,I have been a man loved plainness all my life;Ididdissemble, but the hour has comeFor utter truth and plainness; wherefore, I say,I hold by all I wrote within that book.Moreover,As for the Pope I count him Antichrist,With all his devil's doctrines; and refuse,Reject him, and abhor him. I have said.[Cries on all sides, 'Pull him down! Away with him!'COLE. Ay, stop the heretic's mouth! Hale him away!WILLIAMS. Harm him not, harm him not! have him to the fire![CRANMERgoes out between Two Friars, smiling; hands arereached to him from the crowd. LORD WILLIAM HOWARDandLORD PAGETare left alone in the church.PAGET. The nave and aisles all empty as a fool's jest!No, here's Lord William Howard. What, my Lord,You have not gone to see the burning?HOWARD. Fie!To stand at ease, and stare as at a show,And watch a good man burn. Never again.I saw the deaths of Latimer and Ridley.Moreover, tho' a Catholic, I would not,For the pure honour of our common nature,Hear what I might—another recantationOf Cranmer at the stake.PAGET. You'd not hear that.He pass'd out smiling, and he walk'd upright;His eye was like a soldier's, whom the generalHe looks to and he leans on as his God,Hath rated for some backwardness and bidd'n himCharge one against a thousand, and the manHurls his soil'd life against the pikes and dies.HOWARD. Yet that he might not after all those papersOf recantation yield again, who knows?PAGET. Papers of recantation! Think you thenThat Cranmer read all papers that he sign'd?Or sign'd all those they tell us that he sign'd?Nay, I trow not: and you shall see, my Lord,That howsoever hero-like the manDies in the fire, this Bonner or anotherWill in some lying fashion misreportHis ending to the glory of their church.And you saw Latimer and Ridley die?Latimer was eighty, was he not? his bestOf life was over then.HOWARD. His eighty yearsLook'd somewhat crooked on him in his frieze;But after they had stript him to his shroud,He stood upright, a lad of twenty-one,And gather'd with his hands the starting flame,And wash'd his hands and all his face therein,Until the powder suddenly blew him dead.Ridley was longer burning; but he diedAs manfully and boldly, and, 'fore God,I know them heretics, but right English ones.If ever, as heaven grant, we clash with Spain,Our Ridley-soldiers and our Latimer-sailorsWill teach her something.PAGET. Your mild Legate PoleWill tell you that the devil helpt them thro' it.[A murmur of the Crowd in the distance.Hark, how those Roman wolfdogs howl and bay him!HOWARD. Might it not be the other side rejoicingIn his brave end?PAGET. They are too crush'd, too broken,They can but weep in silence.HOWARD. Ay, ay, Paget,They have brought it in large measure on themselves.Have I not heard them mock the blessed HostIn songs so lewd, the beast might roar his claimTo being in God's image, more than they?Have I not seen the gamekeeper, the groom.Gardener, and huntsman, in the parson's place,The parson from his own spire swung out dead,And Ignorance crying in the streets, and all menRegarding her? I say they have drawn the fireOn their own heads: yet, Paget, I do holdThe Catholic, if he have the greater right,Hath been the crueller.PAGET. Action and re-action,The miserable see-saw of our child-world,Make us despise it at odd hours, my Lord.Heaven help that this re-action not re-actYet fiercelier under Queen Elizabeth,So that she come to rule us.HOWARD. The world's mad.PAGET. My Lord, the world is like a drunken man,Who cannot move straight to his end—but reelsNow to the right, then as far to the left,Push'd by the crowd beside—and underfootAn earthquake; for since Henry for a doubt—Which a young lust had clapt upon the back,Crying, 'Forward!'—set our old church rocking, menHave hardly known what to believe, or whetherThey should believe in anything; the currentsSo shift and change, they see not how they are borne,Nor whither. I conclude the King a beast;Verily a lion if you will—the worldA most obedient beast and fool—myselfHalf beast and fool as appertaining to it;Altho' your Lordship hath as little of eachCleaving to your original Adam-clay,As may be consonant with mortality.HOWARD. We talk and Cranmer suffers.The kindliest man I ever knew; see, see,I speak of him in the past. Unhappy land!Hard-natured Queen, half-Spanish in herself,And grafted on the hard-grain'd stock of Spain—Her life, since Philip left her, and she lostHer fierce desire of bearing him a child,Hath, like a brief and bitter winter's day,Gone narrowing down and darkening to a close.There will be more conspiracies, I fear.PAGET. Ay, ay, beware of France.HOWARD. O Paget, Paget!I have seen heretics of the poorer sort,Expectant of the rack from day to day,To whom the fire were welcome, lying chain'dIn breathless dungeons over steaming sewers,Fed with rank bread that crawl'd upon the tongue,And putrid water, every drop a worm,Until they died of rotted limbs; and thenCast on the dunghill naked, and becomeHideously alive again from head to heel,Made even the carrion-nosing mongrel vomitWith hate and horror.PAGET. Nay, you sickenmeTo hear you.HOWARD. Fancy-sick; these things are done,Done right against the promise of this QueenTwice given.PAGET. No faith with heretics, my Lord!Hist! there be two old gossips—gospellers,I take it; stand behind the pillar here;I warrant you they talk about the burning.EnterTWO OLD WOMEN. JOAN,and after herTIB.JOAN. Why, it be Tib!TIB. I cum behind tha, gall, and couldn't make tha hear. Eh, the windand the wet! What a day, what a day! nigh upo' judgement daay loike.Pwoaps be pretty things, Joan, but they wunt set i' the Lord's cheero' that daay.JOAN. I must set down myself, Tib; it be a var waay vor my owld legsup vro' Islip. Eh, my rheumatizy be that bad howiver be I to win tothe burnin'.TIB. I should saay 'twur ower by now. I'd ha' been here avore, butDumble wur blow'd wi' the wind, and Dumble's the best milcher inIslip.JOAN. Our Daisy's as good 'z her.TIB. Noa, Joan.JOAN. Our Daisy's butter's as good'z hern.TIB. Noa, Joan.JOAN. Our Daisy's cheeses be better.TIB. Noa, Joan.JOAN. Eh, then ha' thy waay wi' me, Tib; ez thou hast wi' thy owldman.TIB. Ay, Joan, and my owld man wur up and awaay betimes wi' dree hardeggs for a good pleace at the burnin'; and barrin' the wet, Hodge 'udha' been a-harrowin' o' white peasen i' the outfield—and barrin' thewind, Dumble wur blow'd wi' the wind, so 'z we was forced to stickher, but we fetched her round at last. Thank the Lord therevore.Dumble's the best milcher in Islip.JOAN. Thou's thy way wi' man and beast, Tib. I wonder at tha', itbeats me! Eh, but I do know ez Pwoaps and vires be bad things; tell'ee now, I heerd summat as summun towld summun o' owld BishopGardiner's end; there wur an owld lord a-cum to dine wi' un, and a wurso owld a couldn't bide vor his dinner, but a had to bide howsomiver,vor 'I wunt dine,' says my Lord Bishop, says he, 'not till I hears ezLatimer and Ridley be a-vire;' and so they bided on and on till vouro' the clock, till his man cum in post vro' here, and tells un ez thevire has tuk holt. 'Now,' says the Bishop, says he, 'we'll gwo todinner;' and the owld lord fell to 's meat wi' a will, God bless un!but Gardiner wur struck down like by the hand o' God avore a couldtaste a mossel, and a set un all a-vire, so 'z the tongue on un cuma-lolluping out o' 'is mouth as black as a rat. Thank the Lord,therevore.PAGET. The fools!TIB. Ay, Joan; and Queen Mary gwoes on a-burnin' and a-burnin', to gether baaby born; but all her burnin's 'ill never burn out the hypocrisythat makes the water in her. There's nought but the vire of God's hellez can burn out that.JOAN. Thank the Lord, therevore.PAGET. The fools!TIB. A-burnin', and a-burnin', and a-makin' o' volk madder and madder;but tek thou my word vor't, Joan,—and I bean't wrong not twice i' tenyear—the burnin' o' the owld archbishop'll burn the Pwoap out o'this 'ere land vor iver and iver.HOWARD. Out of the church, you brace of cursed crones, Or I will haveyou duck'd! (Women hurry out.) Said I not right? For how shouldreverend prelate or throned prince Brook for an hour such brutemalignity? Ah, what an acrid wine has Luther brew'd!PAGET. Pooh, pooh, my Lord! poor garrulous country-wives.Buy you their cheeses, and they'll side with you;You cannot judge the liquor from the lees.HOWARD. I think that in some sort we may. But see,EnterPETERS.Peters, my gentleman, an honest Catholic,Who follow'd with the crowd to Cranmer's fire.One that would neither misreport nor lie,Not to gain paradise: no, nor if the Pope,Charged him to do it—he is white as death.Peters, how pale you look! you bring the smokeOf Cranmer's burning with you.PETERS. Twice or thriceThe smoke of Cranmer's burning wrapt me round.HOWARD. Peters, you know me Catholic, but English.Did he die bravely? Tell me that, or leaveAll else untold.PETERS. My Lord, he died most bravely.HOWARD. Then tell me all.PAGET. Ay, Master Peters, tell us.PETERS. You saw him how he past among the crowd;And ever as he walk'd the Spanish friarsStill plied him with entreaty and reproach:But Cranmer, as the helmsman at the helmSteers, ever looking to the happy havenWhere he shall rest at night, moved to his death;And I could see that many silent handsCame from the crowd and met his own; and thusWhen we had come where Ridley burnt with Latimer,He, with a cheerful smile, as one whose mindIs all made up, in haste put off the ragsThey had mock'd his misery with, and all in white,His long white beard, which he had never shavenSince Henry's death, down-sweeping to the chain,Wherewith they bound him to the stake, he stoodMore like an ancient father of the Church,Than heretic of these times; and still the friarsPlied him, but Cranmer only shook his head,Or answer'd them in smiling negatives;Whereat Lord Williams gave a sudden cry:—'Make short! make short!' and so they lit the wood.Then Cranmer lifted his left hand to heaven,And thrust his right into the bitter flame;And crying, in his deep voice, more than once,'This hath offended—this unworthy hand!'So held it till it all was burn'd, beforeThe flame had reach'd his body; I stood near—Mark'd him—he never uttered moan of pain:He never stirr'd or writhed, but, like a statue,Unmoving in the greatness of the flame,Gave up the ghost; and so past martyr-like—Martyr I may not call him—past—but whither?PAGET. To purgatory, man, to purgatory.PETERS. Nay, but, my Lord, he denied purgatory.PAGET. Why then to heaven, and God ha' mercy on him.HOWARD. Paget, despite his fearful heresies,I loved the man, and needs must moan for him;O Cranmer!PAGET. But your moan is useless now:Come out, my Lord, it is a world of fools.[Exeunt.