The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere

King Henry, John of Oxford.
K. Hen.
All's well; and then all's ill;—who wars on Becket
Hath January posting hard on May,
And night at ten o' the morn. That man regains
Whate'er we snatch: he's dangerous in retreat.
Three times I conquered; first with rotten aid
Of his own bishops in this realm of England;
At Rome through help from you when hope seemed gone;
Lastly at Montmirail. Now comes the change:
Those new-sent envoys bend their brows above me;
Impeach me with bad faith; aver the Censures
Conditionally only were removed;
Remind me of your oaths at Rome!

John of Oxf.
If humbly
Your Highness sues their leave to wear that crown
Bequest of kings who bowed not to the crosier,
The primate wins. So be it!

K. Hen.
Bequest of kings!
There's none of them that dared what I have dared!
They ruled a realm and shared that realm with priests:
I rule an empire; made and rule an empire

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Which in the West shall one day pass in girth
That Frederick's in the East. How bind, how fuse it,
If every bishop reigns, a lesser king,
And every baron? To the dust with such!
My empire is an empire ruled by laws,
Not warring wills; but, mark you, royal laws,
The efflux of one royal will forth flowing
Like rivers through the land!

John of Oxf.
There spake a king!
To speed that great design, I, priest myself,
For many a year, not caring who cried ‘shame,’
Have given you help—that help a priest alone
Sagacious through the labyrinth still to scent
The tortuous trail of priestcraft, could have given.
Sir, at this hour you stand in dangers worse
Thrice than your dangers past. A cry goes up
Not from the poor alone. Your barons, vexed
By scutage tax in place of warlike service,
Fair lands flung wide to judges sent on circuit,
Sharp lawyers prying into privilege,
This day more hate you than they love church-lands:
The Pope grows strong, and with his strength his courage;
While Becket, sager for defeats foregone,
Comes hard on victory's goal.

K. Hen.
A synod, John—
At Clarendon I'll call it three months hence.

John of Oxf.
The bishops will be wary. Synods now
Spawn but disputes; the last was ill-attended.
Old Winton, summoned, answered that the canons
Forbad appeal from greater powers to less:
‘And I,’ he said, ‘now old and grey, have had
That greater summons from my Master, God,

262

Whose judgment I await.’

K. Hen.
Within your eye
I see a counsel glimmering. Speak it, John!

John of Oxf.
Your Highness needs some measure stringent, strong,
Some act to astonish foes, and hearten friends;—
Yet, venturing such, before you imminent
There looms an Interdict.

K. Hen.
And that were ruin.

John of Oxf.
Hear now my counsel! Crown your son, Prince Henry!
The boy will be your puppet-king;—the Pope
Must count him king in act. Work then your will
No Interdict strikes him, or his.

K. Hen.
'Twere hard—
To crown a king is Canterbury's right
By law and usage both.

John of Oxf.
That stands provided!
You willed to crown the prince when eight year old:
That day the Pope granted a dispensation,
And bade you choose your bishop. Canterbury
Lacked then, 'tis true, a primate. What of that?
A precedent was made;—the rest be mine.
Send me to Rome: the Curia seeks no triumph
The Pope shall learn that, grieved at errors past
You from your greatness have deposed yourself
To fight in Holy Land.

K. Hen.
The Pope consent!

John of Oxf.
He still may count that dispensation binding
For Popes are scrupulous ofttimes to their loss:
If, pressed by Becket, he should call it back
We act at once upon his earlier mandate,

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And brand as forged all later. Should he send one
Unless 'tis publicly, in the face of day
Lodged in the bishops' hands, and thus made binding,
Such mandate they may spurn.

K. Hen.
Which fraud exposed,
Becket will launch his bolt.

John of Oxf.
O never, never
That bolt shall Becket launch—

K. Hen.
I keep him barred
From England's shores. Not less that bolt would scorch them.

John of Oxf.
We have reached the inmost kernel of my scheme.
Some six weeks since—so rumour ran—you stood
All day in stormy conference with your bishops:
At eve a stranger, gliding through the dusk,
Lodged in the royal hand an unsigned letter,
On reading which you smiled.

K. Hen.
Its words were these:
‘Better that Becket stood on England's shores
Than roamed the world at will.’

John of Oxf.
I wrote that letter.

K. Hen.
Craftiest of counsellors, I see your drift!
You mean—a dungeon. Henry crowned, the primate,
Or wrathful, or to win his pupil back,
Will hasten to this land.

John of Oxf.
Your Highness then
Hunting in merry Maine! A dungeon—yes—
Worse than a dungeon would be worse for us—
Sir, have no fear! The ship that veers advances:
We have made our losing tack; the good tack next.
[Queen Eleanor enters with her ladies.
The glory and the grace of female beauty,

264

Consummate, and mature, and crowned a Queen!

Q. Elea.
(advancing to the king with a parrot on her wrist).
Lo, here my new-taught mocker! Learn like him!
Speak, painted prophet!—‘Thomas is a fool!’

University of Virginia Library

Scene II.—Palace of Woodstock.