University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE—A Street.
Roper crosses the stage. Margaret follows him.
MARGARET.
Is it not Roper? Roper. Yes it is.

ROPER.
Who calls me? Marg'ret, why came you to Lambeth?

MARGARET.
How can you ask me? Have I not a father?
And is he not this moment wanting aid?
Where is he?

ROPER.
I was coming home to tell you,
And wish my tale was cheering. I o'ertook,
And cross'd the water with him to the palace.
We found the clergy waiting, great and small,
To take the oaths. The only layman there
Was poor Sir Thomas. He was first call'd in.
The oaths were giv'n him. He perus'd them both
With strict attention, but refus'd to swear.
His reasons he conceal'd, and for his silence
Was shortly after (let it not alarm you)
Sent to the Tower.

MARGARET.
To the Tower?

ROPER.
Yes.
But the worst evil that attends him there,
I trust is short confinement.

MARGARET.
Let me lean
One moment on your shoulder. I am faint.
Your story has surpris'd me.

ROPER.
Gentle heart
Take courage. Try and walk a little on.
The air will give you strength.

MARGARET.
Perhaps it will.

ROPER.
Now rest a little. Do you feel refresh'd?

MARGARET.
Better.

ROPER.
But still you tremble, and your lips
Are paler than your cheek.

MARGARET.
Regard it not.
I am recover'd. I can stand alone.
That sigh has done me good. One moment more
And you may leave me.

ROPER.
What shall I begone
And leave you fainting in the public street?
How can you think I have a heart so hard?

MARGARET.
I must be left. My strength is all return'd,
And I will travel ere I eat or drink
To see my father.

(Exit Margaret followed by Roper)
SCENE changes to a Room in the Tower.
Sir Thomas
alone.
Such is my home—a gloomy tenement,
And solitary as the peasant's hut
Upon the barren mountain. Not a soul
Deigns me a visit. All my company
Are toiling spiders, who consume the day
In spreading nets to catch the harmless fly,
An emblem of myself. For what am I
But a poor, helpless, weather-beaten insect,
That sought for shelter in the lowly shed
And found within the spider tyranny.
Sometimes a mouse attends me for my crumbs.
I bid him welcome, but the whisker'd fool
Is still suspicious that I mean him wrong.
How kind was nature, when she made the brute,
To make him cautious how he trusted man!
For such a tyrant is he, that he whets
The murd'rous dagger often for himself,
And ever for his brother; sparing none,
His neighbour, or his kinsman, or his friend.
'Tis all his business to destroy himself,
And all his sport to trample on the brute.
Track him in all his ways, in war, in peace,
Seeking renown upon the battle's edge,
Amusement in the closet or the field,
His footsteps are all mark'd with savage bloodshed.
Philosophy and Faith have each their sword
And murder, one for wisdom, one for truth.
The paths of glory are the paths of blood,
And what are heroes and aspiring kings
But butchers? Has not ev'ry prince his knife,
His slaughter-house, and victim? What am I
But a poor lamb selected from the flock,
To be the next that bleeds, where many a lamb,
As innocent and guiltless as myself,
Has bled before me? On this floor perhaps
The persecuted Harry breath'd his last
Under the sword of Gloster. Clarence here
Drank his last draught of Malmsey, and his son,
Poor hapless boy, pin'd infancy away;
All his acquaintance, sorrow and himself;
And all the world he knew, this little room.
Yes, here he sat, and long'd for liberty,
Which never found him; ending his sad youth
Under the tyrant's axe. And here perhaps
Assassination, at the dead of night,
With silent footstep, and extended arm,
Feeling her way to the remember'd bed,
Found the two breathing princes fast asleep,
And did her bloody work without remorse.
O horrible to think of! Such is man.
No beast, whose appetite is ever blood,
Wants mercy more. Shall I escape him? No.
No Marg'ret, no my daughter, no Eliza,
No my good girl, Cecilia. I must die
And leave my widow and my house to mourn.
Sorrow will overtake you, grievous loss,
Plunder, and beggary. Would that my eyes
Might once more see you all before I go.
Ha! what art thou? Have I obtain'd my prayer?
'Tis my dear Marg'ret.
(Enter Margaret.)
Welcome, my good child.
I bid you welcome with a father's tears.
I know you love me now, for nought but love
Could have prevail'd against the thousand bars
That shut your prison'd father from the world.
How didst thou gain admittance? Hast thou gold?
I left thee poor, and do not think thou hast?
Tell me, was filial tenderness enough,
And did the keeper's iron heart relent
At the good daughter's pray'r?

MARGARET.
I bought my way.
But not with money, Sir; for I have none.
By much entreaty, I obtain'd at last
An order from the secretary Cromwell,
To be admitted to my father's sight.

SIR THOMAS.
Good man, I love him. He seems much concern'd
To see me in such danger. May he live
And be as great an honour to his prince
As, once, his master Wolsey. How does Roper?
How does my Lady, John, and both your sisters?
Have you heard from them?

MARGARET.
Yes, and all are well
As sorrow and continual care permit.
Griev'd all at your imprisonment, yet all
A better fortune hoping.

SIR THOMAS.
Hope it not.
Expect the worst that malice can inflict,
And man can suffer.

MARGARET.
No, we look for days
When our good father shall again be free.
We hope his majesty will yet be pleas'd,
Finding Sir Thomas an obedient subject.

SIR THOMAS.
What! would ye have me take the oaths?

MARGARET.
We would,
And come again to Chelsea and your friends.
Consider, Sir, how many learned men,
All wise and conscientious, have complied.
'Twill hurt your character to stand alone.
Is it repugnant to the law of God?
Who can believe it, when the church itself
With readiness submits. None disobeys,
Of the whole bench, but Fisher. And is't wise
In you, a layman, to think Fisher right,
And all the rest deceiv'd? Were it not safer
To judge that what the parliament allows,
And the whole church approves, is surely good,
And must be countenanc'd, and not repuls'd
With vain reliance on our private thoughts?
Sir, take the oaths. Escape from calumny.
The world condemns you for a haughty mind.
'Tis said that you are rash and obstinate,
And want consideration.

SIR THOMAS.
Say no more.
Poor Adam! I not wonder that he fell,
And ate the fatal fruit, his wife requiring.
My daughter tempts me, and I scarce refrain.
Urge it no more. I cannot change my mind,
And, come what will, I am resolv'd to die
With an unruffled conscience. For my king,
I love him, and would serve him if I could;
But will not serve him, and offend my God.
For Fisher, think not that I follow him.
The oaths were offer'd me, and were refus'd
Before his mind was known. I shape my faith
By no man's fashion, judging for myself.
Nor care I what the world may think or say.

MARGARET.
Sir, I mean not that you should take the oaths,
Because the servile multitude has sworn;
I only press you to consider well
Th' example of the good and conscientious.
Is not some def'rence to those great men due,
Who scruple not? and ought we not to think
Our judgments may be faulty, and their's good?
If they can swear with safety, so may we.
The law commands it. If we disobey,
We are obnoxious to the public peace.
Better conform, and deem that we are wrong,
Wanting sagacity to see the truth.

SIR THOMAS.
Thou subtle Eve, I charge thee, say no more.
Thou'lt make me angry, as I never was,
With my good daughter Marg'ret. Child, be gone.
Thou art much alter'd. Leave me to myself.
I never wish'd thee absent till to-day.
Ay, now you weep. Well, well, I can forgive.
Be patient with me. I grow old and hasty.
I have been almost dying more than once
Since I came hither. Would that I had died.
There is no comfort for me upon earth.
Swear I will not, nor will tell thee why.
I do not say, others have done amiss.
There are in our opinions, as in states,
Continual revolutions. Man is blind.
He sees but little, and must often err.
'Tis prudent to believe we may be wrong,
But not to alter till we feel convinc'd.
Mine is a stout opinion; 'twill not yield,
And, come what will, I must maintain it still.

MARGARET.
Sir, Cromwell bade me tell you, as your friend,
The parliament still lasts.

SIR THOMAS.
I take the hint,
And thank him heartily. Yes, it still lasts,
And ere it rises will a law be made,
Which shall deprive your father of his life.
But let not even death disturb thy peace,
Mine own good daughter. Trouble not thy mind,
Whatever happens. If I lose my head,
My life is little shorten'd. I am ill,
And if I die not by the king to-day,
Shall die to-morrow in the course of nature.
Go from me, and be happy. When I'm gone,
Think that I lov'd thee, but lament me not.
Yes, I have lov'd you all, but chiefly thee;
For thou wast ever in thy father's eye,
Attentively regarding all he said,
And soothing all his pains with sweet concern.
I bless thee for it, and, while life remains,
Will strive to comfort thee. Write to me often.
I'll answer every letter, tho' depriv'd
Of pens and ink, and all my books remov'd.
A coal shall serve me, and I'll write on leaves
Which chance or charity shall throw before me.
Hast thou no scraps of paper in thy pocket?
O yes, thou hast. I'll put them in my bosom,
And use them sparingly as gold. Now go;
And grieve not that I chid thee; for distress
Had sour'd my temper. Bear my truest love
To both your sisters, and to all my sons.
Be good to the poor widow for my sake;
She will have need. Come, now our farewel kiss.
Leave me with fortitude, and be assur'd
In a few years we meet again in heaven.

(Exeunt.)
SCENE changes to a Room in Bonvise's House.
Enter Bonvise.
How good a daughter! Were they all like her,
Earth would be heav'n, and angels would descend
To live with men. Her unexampled love
Remov'd the strongest barriers, won the hearts
Of her invet'rate foes, and made a way
Thro' bolts and locks, portcullises and bars,
Into her father's presence. Such a child
Who has, is rich indeed. Here comes her husband.
(Enter Roper.)
Well, Sir, what news d'ye bring? You seem surpris'd.

ROPER.
Surpris'd I am indeed. Where is my wife?
Have you not heard the parliament has pass'd,
At the king's instance, a malicious act,
Which makes Sir Thomas guilty of high treason?
His ruin is determin'd. He was charg'd,
In full debate, with studying to sow
And propagate sedition thro' the land,
By his refusal of the proffer'd oaths.
'Twas urg'd, if he was suffer'd to escape,
His great authority would sway the people,
And make them disaffected to their king.
Arch-bishop Cranmer was against the bill,
And told the king in private, 'twas his hope
That More and Fisher might be both excus'd
Swearing, as they had promis'd, the one oath
And not the other. But the angry king
Admits no composition, fully bent
To have the blood of both. The act was pass'd,
And as I came I met the officers
Going to bring Sir Thomas to his trial.

BONVISE.
You have astonish'd me. But see—your wife.
Hush for the present. Tell her by degrees
The fortune that awaits her injur'd father.
I'll leave you, and attend upon the trial.
When I return, expect to hear the worst.

(Exit.)
Enter Margaret.
ROPER.
Well, love, how does my father? Will he swear?

MARGARET.
No; he is deafer than the marble rock.
He will not hear me. He is sick and hasty,
And, wouldst thou think it, chid me for my pains.

ROPER.
Chid you, dear heart? Perhaps he did not know
How much and painfully his Marg'ret strove
For that short interview.

MARGARET.
Yes, yes, he did.
I told him something of it, but not all.
I told him also what the world had said,
What Cromwell hinted, and what we advis'd.
And then it was he chid me, bade me leave him,
Said I was strangely alter'd, and declar'd
He wish'd me absent.

ROPER.
'Twas a hard return.
And didst thou leave him angry as he was?

MARGARET.
No; for he saw I griev'd at my repulse,
Accus'd himself for being old and peevish,
Said he was ill, and bade me not regard
The hasty words distress extorted from him.
He comforted and kiss'd me, bade me go
With fatherly affection and concern,
And promis'd to write often, tho' the cruel king,
Canst thou believe it, has denied him pens
Paper and ink. He has not suffer'd him
Even a book to read, but there he sits
Alone and ill at ease, feeding his mind
With melancholy thoughts, or with a coal
Writing on scraps of paper and old leaves
Pick'd from the dusty corners of his gaol.
He ask'd me for the refuse of my pocket,
And all the letter cases I could find
I gave him. With a countenance of joy
He put them in his bosom, and seem'd pleas'd
As if he had received a purse of gold.

ROPER.
Poor man, how much he suffers! yet I fear
He has much more to bear with.

MARGARET.
Fear it not.

ROPER.
I partly know it. I have watch'd the storm.
I wish he may escape, but must assure thee
I think he is encompass'd with such danger
'Twill be impossible.

MARGARET.
What hast thou heard?
Tell it me all. He said enough himself
To make me fear designs against his life,
And told me we should meet again in heaven.

ROPER.
Ay, so I think, but never more on earth.
The parliament has pass'd a cruel act
Which makes him guilty of high treason.

MARGARET.
Well,
Go on, and say the king has giv'n assent.

ROPER.
He has—he urg'd it—and be thou but brave
I'll tell thee more.

MARGARET.
Ay, tell me all you know.
I'll hear it all with patience.

ROPER.
The vex'd king,
Provok'd by Anne, is thirsty for his blood,
And is in heart determin'd he shall die.

MARGARET.
Come with me. I will once again implore
A passage to him, fall upon my knees,
And earnestly beseech him to obey.

ROPER.
Love, 'tis too late.

MARGARET.
What, is he dead?

ROPER.
Dead? No.

MARGARET.
Then I will see him. I will seek again
The gen'rous secretary, pray his leave
To be admitted once more to his sight;
And if his ear is deaf and I speed not,
I'll make my prayer to the king himself.

ROPER.
Stay, stay, I have not told thee all. Attend.
Thy father is this moment on his trial.
I met the offieers who went to fetch him.

MARGARET.
Go then and learn his fate. I'll go myself.

ROPER.
Be patient, gentle heart. We shall know all
Too soon. Bonvise is there. The sight of us
May damp his fortitude, and make him faint
Under the labour of defence. Be patient.
Let us prepare to hear the worst we may
And bear it bravely.

MARGARET.
What! shall I stand here
While my poor father struggles at the bar,
Sick with confinement? No, I will be there.

(Exeunt.)
SCENE changes to a Street.
Re-enter Roper and Margaret.
ROPER.
My love, consider. We have far to walk.
Your strength will fail you. Let us turn again.
You are already heated, and appear
Wild, and distracted. Let us rest awhile.
Bonvise is coming and will tell us all.
(Enter Bonvise.)
Now Sir, how does he?

MARGARET.
Tell me speedily.
Lives he or must he die? Say that he lives.
And yet I know he would not take the oaths.

BONVISE.
Nor has he.

MARGARET.
Then he dies. Come speak the truth.

BONVISE.
Nor let it grieve thy heart. There was no hope.
He is condemn'd.

MARGARET.
And is there no escape?
Is there no mercy, think you, in the king?
He us'd to love him.

BONVISE.
I will not deceive you
I think his execution is determin'd.

MARGARET.
Oh! unrelenting tyrant.

BONVISE.
Softly, softly.
Remember we are speaking in the street,
Where ev'ry door and window has an ear.
Be patient and withdraw. Your father comes,
Returning from his trial to the Tower.
Avoid him, for the sudden sight of you
May ruffle and disturb his constant mind,
Which seems more placid than the summer sky,
When not a vapour clouds it.

MARGARET.
No, I will—
I will behold him. Which way is he led?
I'll once more see him, and obtain his blessing.

BONVISE.
Lo! where he comes, preceded by the axe.
There is a crowd and officers about him,
'Twill be impossible to gain access.
Distress him not. You will be crush'd and hurt,
Perhaps ill-used and angrily repuls'd.

MARGARET.
Stand by, stand by. I will not move a pace.
(Enter Sir Thomas guarded, and with a composed countenance. As soon as he sees his daughter, he pauses and looks compassionately upon her. She bursts into tears, makes her way through the crowd, and, throwing her arms about his neck, exclaims)
My father! O my father!
The guard interferes. Sir Thomas speaks.)
Touch her not,
She is my daughter.

(Sir Thomas sheds tears, and they endeavour to part them.)
SIR THOMAS.
Ay, take me away.
God bless thee, my good child. Come, lead me hence.
My worthy friends, take care of that poor woman.

(Exeunt several ways.)
SCENE changes to a Room in Bonvise's House.
Enter Bonvise with a Servant.
BONVISE.
A letter from Sir Thomas! Let me see.
Ha! how! to day! within the hour! at nine!
Send Roper hither. This adult'rous king
Is greedy for his blood. I never heard
Of haste so unbecoming. 'Tis the spite
Of Bullen urges him, and go he must.
(Enter Roper.)
O Sir, sad news! Sir Thomas dies to day.

ROPER.
To-day, Sir?

BONVISE.
Yes to-day. Approach and hear.
I have a letter from him. Come this way.
I'll read it to you, and I'll read it softly
Lest your wife overhear.

ROPER.
Read it aloud.
She's gone by my persuasion to her chamber.
And Lady More is with her.

BONVISE
(reads.)
“Worthy Sir,
“Sir Thomas Pope has been this morning with me
“And brings me news that I must die to day—
“Within the hour—at nine.”

ROPER.
Within the hour!
At nine too! Then he suffers now. Hark, hark.
My ear deceives me, or I hear the chimes.
Listen and count the clock—six—sev'n—eight—nine.
That monster Bullen has obtain'd her wish,
And my poor pining wife will die for grief.

BONVISE.
Hush, hush.

ROPER.
I'll take her instantly away,
She shall not hear her father is no more.

BONVISE.
She must, she shall. It is his own request
She may attend him to the grave. Come, come.
Think of some gentle method to reveal it.
Hear the remainder of her father's letter.
“I pray'd my daughter Marg'ret might be present
“At my interment, and my pray'r was heard.
“My wife and children may all follow me,
“And I entreat them not to be o'ercome
“By unavailing sorrow. I am happy.
“Tell my good daughter Marg'ret, I am pleas'd
“To recollect the sweet regard she shew'd me
“At our last interview. We meet again,
“Not many summers hence, where gates and walls
“Shall no more sever us. The handkerchief
“I gave Sir Thomas Pope is for Cecilia,
“The picture for Eliza, to be kept
“As poor memorials of their father's love.
“My blessing to them all. To thee, my friend,
“I give my warmest thanks for all thy kindness.
“Few are the men who feed a duteous child,
“As thou hast fed and benefited me,
“Since want o'ertook me, and I came to pine
“Here in a grated prison. Love my children.”
I will, I will. Marg'ret shall live with me,
And I will be her father. Ha! who comes?
Dancy and Heron.
Enter Dancy and Heron.
My good friends, sad news.
Are you appriz'd that at this very moment
Sir Thomas may be kneeling at the block?

HERON.
He is in heav'n. We met Sir Thomas Pope,
Who saw him die. And it reviv'd us much,
To hear he bore his sentence with a heart
So patient and heroic. Undisturb'd
At the grim apparatus of the scaffold,
He mounted chearfully, and met his end
With such composure as the peaceful mind
Brings ever to its duty.

BONVISE.
Still the same
In life's most arduous hour. I never saw
A face more cheerful at a wedding feast,
Than his when he appeared upon his trial.
Yet was he feeble and came slowly forth
Leaning upon his staff. His cheek was pale,
And underneath it seem'd to harbour pain
Not quite conceal'd. He was allow'd a chair,
And, after he was seated, sigh'd. But these
Were all the marks he shew'd of discontent,
Distress or sickness. E'en the dreadful sentence,
Which fill'd with horror ev'ry face beside,
Mov'd not the cheerful constancy of his.
How does Cecilia, Sir?

HERON.
I cannot say.
Well I believe. But her good father's fate
So much afflicts her that she never speaks,
And, when I question her of her own health,
Answers me only with a look of thanks,
From eyes that ever swim with silent grief.

BONVISE.
And how does poor Eliza?

DANCY.
Sad indeed.
She never ceases to lament and sigh
By night or day.

HERON.
They will be both in town
This afternoon, to follow to the grave
Their injur'd father, and condole his loss
With Marg'ret. Is she well? How does she, Sir?

ROPER.
Approach and see. Soon as your wives arrive,
She shall have notice of her father's death.
May she survive it.

BONVISE.
Let it be convey'd
By distant hints, and our own sad deportment.
She has a tender heart, and freely grieves
For sorrows not her own. I hope her sisters
Intend to seek her at my house.

HERON.
They do, Sir.

BONVISE.
They shall be welcome. With an honest heart
I lov'd their father, and shall still love them.
Whatever ills pursue them, bring them hither,
And here they shall experience a warm friend,
Happy to serve them in the hour of need.
Live with me, if you please. I have enough.
And know not how I could bestow it better,
Or more to my own pleasure, than to feed
And keep for life the children of my friend.

(Exeunt omnes.)