The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere

King Henry, John of Oxford.
K. Hen.
I am ill at ease, good John. Some fate malignant
Drags still my fortunes from their starry way
And drowns them in the mist. His kinsfolk's exile
Blackened my name with Christendom's abhorrence;
The traitor's self, cast forth from Pontigny,
Stands stronger than before.
Of all my foes this man alone, this Becket,
Hath marred and dwarfed me in my own esteem;
And for that cause I hate him—and will hate.
It may be I was rash. My mother thinks so,
A politic head that never loved the priests:
She warns me to revolt not 'gainst the Church
Lest God should rouse my sons, in turn revolted,
One day to plague their sire.

242

John of Oxf.
May it please you, sir,
Sickness, a superstitious thing, and death,
Whose coming shadow casts a ghostly semblance
On commonest shapes, perturb her mind, else strong.
Likewise she listens to that nun Idonea.

K. Hen.
My barons in this battle with the Church
Serve me with soul divided. Becket's eye
Went through them at Northampton. Becket's legate:—
Ere long the man will hurl a Censure forth:
My bishops weep and wail to me to spare them
Nor dash them broken 'gainst the canon law:
The Emperor wanes; his antipope wastes daily:
The Pope is waxing, and he knows his power.
I have lit my camp-fires on a frozen flood;—
Methinks, the ice wears thin.

John of Oxf.
Retreat is none.

K. Hen.
I have resolved to send an embassy
To Rome. What say you?

John of Oxf.
Who shall be its head?
His Grace of York, or Gilbert?

K. Hen.
Gilbert! Gilbert!
Gilbert's a knave that slips between two stools:
His youth had soarings: if for each tenth step
He took in sanctity, or seemed to take,
He could have ta'en but one in honest dealing,
The man had reached a sort of crazy saintship:
For greatness of this world courage he lacks.
Nor York, nor Gilbert! Guess again.

John of Oxf.
I cannot.

K. Hen.
You are my choice. Make strong this embassy:
Save weakness every fault is pardonable:
Within this paper are your orders writ:

243

Concession—ay, but making definite still
Those lines which keep our citadel intact,
The essence and the pith of all I strove for.
Be this your chart.

John of Oxf.
Sire, if it please your Highness,
This battle, though a hard one, shall be gained,
Two things conditioned—freedom and a purse.
Cramp not my movements: definite rules and limits
I never loved. This day the skilfullest hand
In tracing such should weave but nets to snare
Your royal purpose, or a rope to choke it.
The serpent's finer wisdom helps us oft
No more than plain simplicity of doves;
The fox's vulgarer craft serves then our need.
Leave terms to me; but grant me wide credentials:
The Pope will claim both pledge and oath; I give them;
Their import others can decide more late
Wiselier than I; your Grace hath wits scholastic:
With such the royal conscience shall consult,
The Censures first recalled.

K. Hen.
I see it, John.

Your counsel's deep.

[A horn is heard.
John of Oxf.
The prince returned from chase!

[Prince Henry rides up with attendants bearing a dead stag, and stops under the window.
P. Hen.
Father, against your will or with your will,
This stag, my first, finds way to my old master.

[Gallops on.
K. Hen.
He's gone! 'Tis for that boy my soul I peril!

University of Virginia Library

Scene VII.—A bay window in the Palace at Le Mans.