 | Sir Thomas More |  |
90
ACT. IV.
The Funeral Procession of Sir John More, followed by Sir Thomas and all his Family. As they proceed, Sir Thomas steps aside, and Margaret follows him. The rest go out and leave them.SIR THOMAS.
Ay, come, my child. We will not to the grave.
For 'tis a painful thing to see interr'd
Those we have lov'd, tho' they depart in years.
I wish Cecilia too had stept aside.
She knows not what it is to see the earth
Close on the friend we must no more behold.
MARGARET.
'Twill grieve her most acutely. I was present
When he expir'd, and 'twas a moving sight
To see with what solicitude she cheer'd
His sensible departure. On her brow
Sat anxious pity and assiduous hope,
And almost charm'd the gradual death away
With silent soft persuasion. At her looks
Sir John himself was pleas'd, and with a smile,
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Expir'd approving in his elbow chair.
SIR THOMAS.
May all our exits be as smooth as his.
See, what a blessing 'tis to die in peace;
To leave the world, and feel no secret stings
From a reproving conscience. What is death
To him who meets it with an upright heart?
A quiet haven, where his shatter'd bark
Harbours secure, till the rude storm is past.
Perhaps a passage, overhung with clouds
But at 'tis entrance, a few leagues beyond
Op'ning to kinder skies and milder suns
And seas pacific as the soul that seeks them.
MARGARET.
And what is death, Sir, if the little peace
Of life's tumultuous eve be chas'd away
By recollection of improper deeds
And duties not perform'd. Awful its frown
To him who views it ev'ry day he lives
With growing apprehension.
SIR THOMAS.
Yes, my child;
Therefore will you and I be honest still
Tho' we die beggars. For no word or deed
Shall our good hearts accuse us. We will live
No man's oppressors but the friends of all,
And do our duty tho' we die in straw.
They come from church. Let's step aside awhile.
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I wish to see where my good father sleeps.
(Exeunt.)
SCENE changes to the inside of the Church. Re-enter Sir Thomas and Margaret.
SIR THOMAS.
See where he lies. The race of life is run
And here he sleeps for ages. Ninety years
Alive and active was the silent corpse
That rests within this grave. How wonderful
That the resulting heart for so long time
Should dance unwearied, and forbear at last
With visible reluctance—that the blood,
Refrain'd by temperance, should up and down
Travel so merrily, and hardly pause
E'en in a cent'ry. Pause it will at last,
And we must all lie down and kiss the dust
As well as this good man who slumbers here.
Simple or noble, indigent or rich,
This is our home. Ay, there thy mother sleeps.
She was the most deserving of her sex
Thy foolish father shed a world of tears
When he there plac'd her. Marg'ret when I die,
As I am sickly in estate and health,
Lay me beside her. I would rest my bones
Under this very spot. Mark it with care.
And when I'm buried let a stone be plac'd
Just here, upon your mother's grave and mine,
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A plain smooth stone without embellishment,
And not disfigur'd with a vain account
Of virtues more than mortal e'er possess'd.
Let it tell truth, and tell it in few words.
Better to say too little than too much.
I have a short inscription in my desk;
When we go home, I'll search and give it you.
Why weeps my daughter? Child, if I am sad
Let it not grieve you. I have many cares
You have not heard of.
MARGARET.
Let me know them, Sir.
Trouble is ever lighten'd by complaint.
Reveal the grief that preys upon your heart
And it shall half expire.
SIR THOMAS.
Why should I tell it.
'Twill make thee wretched tho' it eases me.
MARGARET.
Not more so than I am, when thus assur'd
Something afflicts you, and I know not what.
Perhaps I shall enhance the latent ill,
And be more wretched while it lies conceal'd
Than when it is made known.
SIR THOMAS.
Child, I must fall.
I cannot with integrity support
My ruin'd fortunes. To escape from want
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To a deserted widow without friends
Tho' all-deserving.
MARGARET.
Sooner let us want
Life's necessary blessings, bread to eat,
A house to live in, clothes to cover us,
And beds to sleep on.
SIR THOMAS.
There my daughter spoke.
I will defy the hardest lot of life.
Can'st thou believe it, Marg'ret, that the king
Gave me the noble office which I hold
Only to bribe me, to procure my voice
Against poor Catharine? And shall I give it?
No, tho' it rouse his anger mountain high,
And for my loyalty I lose my head.
There is but one thing that withholds my hand,
Making me cautious how I give offence,
And 'tis indeed a circumstance that grieves me.
'Tis, that our fortunes as so interwoven,
The blow that ruins me will ruin you;
Will sensibly affect my innocent house
And make my children beggars like myself.
MARGARET.
Sir, let it not disturb you.
SIR THOMAS.
I would fall,
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Rather than trespass as the king desires.
But how shall I requite it to my children.
Dancy depends upon me. My own son
Has nothing yet to live on; thou hast little.
My father could not help us. All he had
Goes to his widow ere it comes to us.
My Lady Alice will have no support.
We shall be scatter'd like the worried flock
And each must seek for shelter with her own.
Thou must retire with Roper to his farm.
Cecilia must with Heron to his father's.
The little I have left must be bestow'd
On Lady Alice, Dancy, and Eliza.
John and myself must starve, or be content
To earn by labour every meal we eat.
MARGARET.
Dear Sir, you break my heart. Be more compos'd.
Our little fortunes will be wealth enough.
Send Dancy to his father's. You and John
And Lady Alice, come and live with us.
Or let us hire adjoining houses, small
And suited to our incomes.
SIR THOMAS.
So we will.
I will not part from my whole happiness.
Tho' cruel fortune scatter all the rest,
Marg'ret shall be my hope and comfort still.
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We will be modest in our wants, discharge
All but one servant each, live on plain diet,
And nicely manage our exhausted means.
We will shun pleasure and expensive dress,
And live secluded from the public eye,
Contented tho' reduc'd. We will not ask
The neighbour or the stranger to our board,
But steal away to solitude and books;
Pleas'd with the memory of triumphant virtue,
And poverty preferr'd to vicious wealth.
If yet our wants are more than we can feed,
We will be unattended. My own hand
Shall do the house-wife's work, shall spin and knit,
And earn by industry sufficient bread.
SIR THOMAS.
My most deserving daughter. Thou wast born
To teach thy father virtue. I was sad,
But the sweet patience of thy pious heart
Revives and gives me comfort. Yes, I'll go,
And gladly bid farewel to courts and princes.
Poor we must be, but we will still be just,
And live upon the hope of better days.
We will presume the Author of events
Approves of our endeavours, and perhaps
Yet ere we come to sorrow and the grave,
Will bless our patience with an easier lot.
Come, we will hence contented. For my father,
Let us esteem him happy that he died.
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Go to my Lady. Tell her my intent.
Reveal it to your sisters. Honest girls,
They will be griev'd to hear how soon we part.
Tell thy unwelcome story by degrees,
And mingle comfort with it. I'll to court,
And when we meet again, meet me with joy,
Tho' I return as poor as I was born.
I shall not be long absent. Wolsey's gone.
His master was his heir before he died,
And I expect to find him at York-place.
(Exeunt.)
SCENE—the Country between Chelsea and London.
Enter Sir Thomas More, meeting Tunstall.
TUNSTALL.
Well met, Sir Thomas, 'tis to you I come.
SIR THOMAS.
I'm glad to see your Lordship look so well.
Preferment does you good. You were but thin
When we return'd together from Cambray.
TUNSTALL.
Ay, thin from application, want of rest,
And unabated travel. Now I pause
And take my time, no longer yok'd with you,
A steed of ardent spirit, never tir'd,
That jaded me to nothing. By your office
You should improve in looks as well as I.
Plenty pursues you, yet your brow is sad,
And your cheek pale.
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Ay, pale as your's was thin,
From constant application, want of rest,
And unabated travel. Pack-horse like,
Still I am plodding on, and find no rest
To gather flesh like you, worn to the bone
By everlasting toil. My Lord, fine gowns
May hide uneasy hearts, and so does mine.
TUNSTALL.
Then let me comfort you. I know your cares,
I know your wants, Sir Thomas. You are poor.
Your family is large, and 'tis your wish
You had in hand to serve them. Hear me then.
I come deputed from the convocation,
In name of all the bishops and the clergy,
To thank you for the pains you have bestow'd
In writing volumes of so great desert
In vindication of th' establish'd church.
SIR THOMAS.
My Lord, they do me honour; but their praise
Was not a fee I wish'd for.
TUNSTALL.
No, Sir Thomas,
Nor is it all they offer. Well aware
How much your fortunes have of late been hurt,
They grant you readily four thousand pounds,
As a free gift, to recompence your toils.
SIR THOMAS.
My Lord, they shew a spirit which becomes them.
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Have prov'd themselves so worthy of defence.
I beg your Lordship to assure the house
I'm heartily oblig'd. 'Tis comfort to me
To have my simple doings so approv'd.
But for the money they are pleas'd to tender,
I shall not take a penny.
TUNSTALL.
Surely Sir.
Was it not well-deserv'd? If deeds like these
Must not be recompenc'd, virtue must starve,
And worth, in spite of talents, be a beggar.
Consider coolly. 'Tis but a small gift.
I was commission'd to make some excuse
That it so little merited acceptance.
SIR THOMAS.
My Lord, I am determin'd, not a penny.
What, will you have it said in the wide world,
The church were so deficient, that they brib'd
Sir Thomas More, a layman, to write for them?
TUNSTALL.
I cannot think, Sir Thomas, the wide world,
So well assur'd of your contempt for money,
Will ever be suspicious that you wrote
With prospect of reward.
SIR THOMAS.
They never shall.
Therefore I shun your gift, and never hope
To be one farthing richer by the church.
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Suppose then we proceed on other terms.
Let us bestow it on your family,
Your wife and children.
SIR THOMAS.
Not a doit, my Lord.
Who gives my family enriches me.
If I look on, another shedding blood,
And tacitly approve of what he does,
Falls not the guilt of murder upon me
As much as if myself had push'd the knife?
So then if I refuse a profer'd bribe,
But wink at him who puts it in my purse,
I may be still esteem'd corrupt and venal.
No, Tunstall, they must not accept the gift.
I thank you for your zeal to me and mine.
I love and honour you. Out of your gown
You are a christian friend and honest man.
I know it gave you pleasure, to be sent
With this good news to me. Accept my thanks.
'Tis almost all Sir Thomas has to give you.
Pray let me not detain you. Norfolk comes,
And has perhaps state business for my ear.
Use all your eloquence in convocation,
And tell the clergy I am much their friend.
(Exit. Tunstall.)
(Enter Norfolk.)
Your grace, or I'm mistaken, seeks for me.
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Yes, Sir, and bring his majesty's command,
That you this afternoon explain his cause
Before the lower house—that you unfold
Th' opinions of the Universities,
Beyond sea and at home, as much as may be
His marriage furthering, and his just doubts
Approving and commending.
SIR THOMAS.
Ay—indeed?
Intends his majesty beyond all doubt
To marry Bullen?
NORFOLK.
Sir, beyond all doubt.
I've heard it said, the nuptials are already
Consummated in private. This I know,
They live as man and wife.
SIR THOMAS.
Returns your grace
To meet his majesty?
NORFOLK.
This moment, Sir.
SIR THOMAS.
Then, I beseech you, hear my little prayer,
And when you've heard it, bear it to the king.
I grow infirm and sickly, and my mind
Loses its wonted vigour. My request
Is, that his majesty would give me leave
To quit his service ere I misbecome it.
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Soon as I think you have made known my prayer,
I'll be at the king's feet myself, and yield
The seal in person. Do not ask me why.
My reasons I conceal. I pray your grace,
How does your noble son? Is he abroad,
Or does he ornament his native isle?
I do not think a more accomplish'd man
Lives in the world. He manages the pen
As bravely as the truncheon. With the one
He overthrew the Scot at Flodden field,
And with the other triumphs ev'ry where.
He wins the laurel twice, and should be crown'd
Victor in arms and song. Where is he now?
NORFOLK.
At Florence, Sir, maintaining Geraldine.
SIR THOMAS.
The beauteous servant of our hapless queen.
Pray, Sir commend me to him. If I live
Till he returns, I shall rejoice to see him.
(Exit Sir Thomas.)
NORFOLK.
So then, the king must lose his chancellor.
I see, More will not serve him under Bullen.
Well, honesty becomes us, but I fear
'Twill make Sir Thomas shorter by the head.
(Exit.)
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Enter Margaret, Eliza, and Cecilia.
MARGARET.
Well then, my sisters, we are all agreed,
Our father has done wisely to resign.
It shall not grieve us to be quite reduc'd,
Rather than urge him to the thing he loaths.
ELIZA.
It only grieves me we must be divorc'd
From this our lov'd, and long-remember'd home,
And from each other. We, whose happy days
Have all been spent beneath the same kind roof,
And who, in our whole lives, have scarcely known
A fortnight's separation.
CECILIA.
Ay, my girls,
'Twill make your hearts ach when our husbands come
And tell us they are ready to be gone.
For my own part, I am almost resolv'd
Not to be patient till I see my father
And take a formal leave, but quit his house
Silent and unobserv'd.
ELIZA.
No, no, Cecilia.
'Twill seem as if we wanted just respect
And filial duty. Let us shew esteem
And due attention in the hour of need.
'Tis the best comfort of the humbled mind,
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No, let us meet with courage the sad hour
That parts us ever from the roof we love.
Let us be resolute, and if we can
Go from our father with unweeping eyes.
MARGARET.
Yes, be content and cheerful. Let no cloud
Hang on your brows, and no remorseful tear
Steal from your eyelids. Stifle grief within,
Nor give it sweet indulgence, till your feet
Have past the threshold of your father's house.
'Twill give him ease to find your steady minds
Repine so little at the sudden change.
Come, let's assume at least the face of mirth,
Tho' sorrow preys upon the heart within.
Our father will return before we think,
And find us grieving. Let him find us gay.
'Twas his desire. Eliza, try a song.
I've often heard you say, when the mind's sad
'Tis luxury to sing.
ELIZA.
Yes, plaintive airs,
Dirges, and fun'ral anthems. Serious sounds
Are the sweet banquet melancholy loves.
CECILIA.
Sing us that little air you made yourself.
It suits the solemn temper of my mind.
Begin, and leave the second part to me.
(Eliza and Cecilia sing.)
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SIR THOMAS.
Thank you, my little friends. To hear you sing
Makes my heart dance with pleasure. Have you told them
What I requested, Marg'ret?
MARGARET.
Yes I have Sir.
SIR THOMAS.
Why, then I thank them twice. And would to God
I had substantial blessings for you all.
But we must part, Eliza, we must part.
Cecilia, we must laugh at sev'ral homes:
We disagree so much, we must be sunder'd,
And measure swords but seldom. I am poor,
And must be thankful to your sister Marg'ret
For my own food and lodging; nothing now
But plain Sir Thomas in a fustian coat,
With neither robes nor office. Ring the bell.
I wish to see my butler. Here he comes.
(Enter Butler.)
Harris, to-morrow I keep house no more.
Your master is grown poor, and can't support you.
Here, take these letters. They are all replies
To applications which I made for you,
And for your fellow-servants. Read them all.
The oldest chuses first, the youngest last.
You must all leave me, but I'm glad to tell you
There are much better places for you all.
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Sir, I have never wish'd a better place.
I will attend you still, or rich or poor,
And be content with nothing.
SIR THOMAS.
My good friend,
If I feed you, I cannot live myself.
No, you must leave me. Go, and go in peace.
You've serv'd me truly. I may serve myself
Before I die. If so, I'll learn from you
To serve with honesty from year to year,
Be satisfied with wages never high,
And quit my master's service with reluctance.
What wouldst thou say?
BUTLER.
Ladies, the horses wait.
SIR THOMAS.
What, must we part so soon? Go, bid them wait.
(Exit Butler.)
My daughters, I had hopes we should have din'd
Once more together. But I'll not detain you.
Since we must part, 'tis better to part now.
God bless you both. Be cheerful and content,
And let not my misfortunes vex your hearts.
I'll come and see you soon—perhaps this month.
Thank God, my limbs are lusty. I can walk
Some distance in a day, tho' I grow old.
John shall attend me, and we'll come on foot,
Staves in our hands, and wallets at our backs,
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(Exeunt Eliza and Cecilia.)
Now Marg'ret, let us settle our accounts,
Dispose of all we have, and leave the house.
Child, dost thou weep? Let not thy courage fail.
Mine will soon follow it. Look up and smile.
Come, we have pass'd the hour I dreaded most.
My daughters are both gone, and I have brav'd,
And they have brav'd the pain of separation.
Where is my Lady? She will not commend
The deed which makes a beggar of her husband.
Who comes? Norfolk! What business brings him hither.
(Enter Norfolk.)
NORFOLK.
Sir Thomas, I must once more trouble you.
'Tis the king's pleasure you repair with speed
To Lambeth palace; there to take the oaths
Requir'd by the late statute, to maintain
None but the king supreme, to hold Queen Anne
Our sov'reign's lawful consort, and her issue
Heirs of the crown; and the young Lady Mary,
Daughter of Arthur's widow, Prince of Wales,
Unlawfully begotten.
SIR THOMAS.
Has an act
Of such a purport pass'd thro' both the houses?
NORFOLK.
It has; and more, Sir, Cath'rine is divorc'd,
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I must return in haste, and have but time
To tell Sir Thomas 'tis my warmest hope
He will incline to savour the kings pleasure.
The indignation of a prince is death.
(Exit Norfolk.)
SIR THOMAS.
Herodias has prevail'd, Herod is pleas'd
And I must be the martyr. Yes, I come.
Marg'ret my child, why are thy looks so sad?
Smile at the shadowy troubles we have pass'd,
For we have pains to come shall treble these,
And make them hardly worthy of a sigh.
I must be gone to Lambeth. I may go
And never more return. For thy poor father
Has enemies that long to shed his blood
And will prevail. Go to my Lady Alice.
Support and comfort her. Give me one kiss,
And grieve not if we never meet again.
God bless you.
MARGARET.
Sir let me entreat you, stay.
Stay and let Roper cross the water with you.
Let me attend you.
SIR THOMAS.
No, I'll go alone.
Hang not upon me, for I must and will.
(Exit disordered.)
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(at the door)
He has made fast the door. What, Roper, Roper.
Some accident may happen. Where's the key?
'Tis bolted. Roper, Roper.
(Enter Roper.)
ROPER.
Why d'ye call?
MARGARET.
My father is gone out in great disorder.
I would have follow'd, but he shut the door,
And bolted it.—Pursue him with all speed,
And overtake him. Do not be denied,
But keep him company. He goes to Lambeth.
You'll surely find him at the water side.
(Exit Roper hastily and Margaret after him.)
SCENE changes to the Hall of Sir Thomas's House.
Re-enter Margaret followed by Lady More.
LADY MORE.
Where are you going thus attir'd? Abroad?
MARGARET.
Madam, not far. I'll presently return.
LADY MORE.
Let me walk with you.
MARGARET.
I must go alone.
'Tis private business, and requires dispatch.
(Exit.)
LADY MORE.
And I may find companions where I can.
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Could not have mov'd a pace, but he had met
Crowds of gay visitants. Now all is hush'd
And silent as a church. Wit is expir'd,
Laughter is gone, and music is no more.
Too well I see, the poor are never priz'd.
Wealth is the magnet which attracts us all.
And be our virtues brighter than the sun,
Be we possess'd of angel's excellence,
If fortune leaves us not a friend remains.
(Exit.)
| Sir Thomas More | |