University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

The King's Closet.
Henry and Fitz-Urse.
Henry.
Old Theobald is dead: well, Heaven send him
More peace than he gave us from fractious monks,
Our mild Archbishop!

Fitz-Urse.
He's not stiffer now
In body than he ever was in spirit.

Henry.
By Mahound thou say'st true, rugged-mouth'd Reginald!
Your lawn-lapt bishop is less flexible
Than baron stark in steel. The Christian Pharisees!

Fitz-Urse.
Dog's death to them, and ass's burial
Outside the gates!

Henry.
We'll crush them, Reginald!
We 'll crush the stiff-necked shavelings now, if any
Iron be in this arm!—Go you and haste
The Council—let me see—to the Red Chamber:
They've had a summons; haste them!
[Exit Fitz-Urse.
He shall be Primate.
Not that his learning, wisdom, and state-craft,
So much commend him to the office; nor
That courage of the head, which few men have
(Heart-courage is beast-common!) to dare look
Beyond this petty wave of time, and scan
Futurity's spreading deep; nor yet in sooth
His life, which, I confess, like mine, gives forth
Some odour of unsanctity:—but that
He is my friend, who loves his self for me;
Whom I can trust with all my thoughts as freely
As the two-headed God could let his flow
From one brain to its neighbour. For these matters
Touching the Church, wherefore should he oppose me,
Now, after long agreement? He has oft
Said Amen to our secular anathema,
Against encroachers on our civil rights.
No, I could ne'er select a fitter tool!
He ever to my will has been obsequious,
To my least wishes, even when his hatred.
He help'd me to the crown too!—Though he have
Small influence, as a losel, with his order,
So best; he 'll have less interest for them too!
With a rough besom I must sweep this Church,
For it is foul; albeit at the same time,
I scratch some reverend bare legs within it.
'Tis a bold move; and may e'en shake the kingdom
Till the throne totter; but it must be made!
No blenching, Harry! Deeds become great by danger:
Upon Destruction's hair-broad margin still
Success doth love to walk!—Let's to the work:
'Twill halve itself upon me and my choice,
So become light to the joint labourers.
He shall be Primate!

[Exit

SCENE II.

A Conjurer's Cell. Apparatus for magic.
Eleanor disguised, and the Conjurer.
Eleanor.
Make me to see her who doth own this ring
In what so cloudy and disfigurate form
You will,—but make me see her.

Conjurer.
Give me the jewel
First: there is nothing can be done without
The jewel.

Eleanor.
There!—Shew me her in the arms
Of Satan's self, burning in his embraces,
If possible, good Wizard!

Conjurer.
Madam, whoe'er
You boast yourself, your accents are more terrible
Than those I conjure with! They scare my wits,
And make me use wrong mixtures. Yea, they seem
To scare the very demon I would summon,
Mine own familiar!

Eleanor.
Cite him again! It is
My heart-wrung groans to Vengeance make me hoarse,
Tearing my gorge:—cite him again, I say!

Conjurer.
Then keep you silence!— (Aside)
The shebandog's throat
Is furr'd and dry, she breathes so hot for blood!
Such horrible and hollow, hell-drawn sounds,
Ne'er came from sepulchre unconsecrate,
At whose dark bottom moan the tortured dead.
Bless me from this grim harridan!

Eleanor.
Thou caitiff!
What keep'st thou muttering there thy husky charms?
Shriek out thy incantations and commands
Till the deaf adders of the pit shall hear thee!

Conjurer.
She's more a domineerer over demons,
Than I!—Is't Hecate's self?—Madam, perchance
My black-bird would come to your chirrup rather?
(Aside.)
So wrapt she is in fardingales, I cannot
See by her foot if she's the Devil's dam,
But truly I do think it!—Let me stand
Safe in my circle—

[Gets within his circle of gallipots.
Eleanor.
Slaverer! idiot!
Mumbling thy mummeries, and dropping drivel
Into thy row of potsherds, raise me a fume
Blood red and black as the two elements
That make hell's atmosphere,—where I may see
Some Power of Darkness, who shall give me light,
Volume himself abroad!

Conjurer.
I will! I will!— (Aside.)

Fulgor ex fumo is beyond my art,
However I must raise a good thick smoke
To smother her, if but to stop her noise.—
(Muttering.)

[A volume of lurid smoke rises: in the midst a fiendlike shape appears.
Conjurer.
Who art thou, villain!—Mark with what respect
He'll take my greeting—

A Voice.
Thy familiar spirit!
Full of thy nature! thy swart other self!
Therefore most truly—villanous!

[Dwerga comes forth, the fiend-shape flies.
Conjurer.
Mercy!—I never
Raised such a real devil before!—Avaunt!

[Quits his circle, and runs behind the Queen.
Dwerga
(getting into the circle).
Hu! hu! hex! hex! Now I'll be conjurer!
First let me lay this gibbering, ghost-like form
In a Red-Sea—of ruddle!—
[Dashing a gallipot at him.
There's pot-luck for thee!
(Dashing another.)
There's a hot cordial to keep life in thee,
Thou bloodless wretch! that even at thy birth
Wert a half dead-born thing!—Mistress, I 'll spit him
On his own rod, and roast the tame goose here
With his pale liver stuck beneath his arm-pit—

Eleanor.
Forbear!—

Dwerga.
I 'll do him a nice delicate brown
Upon the sulphur, a tit-bit for Baal!

Eleanor.
Bring not the people in with this strange hurley—

[Exit Conjurer.
Dwerga.
Hu! hu! hex! hex!—He could not charm an owl
Out of an ivy-tod to play the wiseacre,
Or screech wild oracles!—I have more craft
In this hard, knotted skull, than deep-read dunce
Ere drew from his dry parchments!—His familiar?
Ay!—she has been—for 'twas a female spirit
Gross as a male—familiar enow with him!
Six white-faced imps, as like to both of them
As tadpoles are to toads, squat by the fire
Under that trap-door, whence your fine diabolus
Rose vapouring in rank perfume, from a pile
Of pitchwood; o'er whose blaze in cauldron huge
Welter'd their soup of cabbage. I'd have scratch'd
Those pap-soft faces while within my claw,
But fear'd to make them squall.

Eleanor.
How got you there?

Dwerga.
From outside, where you left me snivelling.
Worse than a beggar's brat, with cold, I scamper'd
On all fours, like a black cat, in the dusk,
Down their blind stairs, into their reeky kitchen,
When you stept up aloft: there sat I squinting
Out of a rat's nest, and saw all.

Eleanor.
And am I
The dupe of such poor tricksters, then?

Dwerga.
No, grandam;
Of thy own folly rather!—But take comfort:
It is not the first wife has play'd the devil
In her own house—
[Clutching up the Ring.
Ho! ho! a prize! a prize!

Eleanor.
Reptile! render me that.—

Dwerga.
Not till I've lick'd it
[Scrambling to the roof.
Clean from the colley, and decypher'd it.
I'm out o' thy reach among the rafters. Nay,
Whirl aught at me, I 'll tear a hole in the roof,
And blazon shrill as the crack'd trumpet blows,—
The Queen of England in a Conjurer's garret!
Thou wert best let me alone. I'll suck the virtue
Out of this talisman, and spirt it down
Upon you, grandam!

Eleanor.
Thou art all lie! a warp
Of subtleties! all malice, mockery!
As treacherous and unreliable
As the parch'd reed is to a drowning man!
I cannot trust one word thou say'st, except it
Condemn thyself.

Dwerga.
Or thee, thou mayst trust that too!—
But hey?—What 's here?—A Rose within a Snake
[Examining the device.
Coil'd huge about her: good!—in a love-symbol,
The serpent aye should couch him by the rose!
What's this again that twists the flower around,
Strangling her, as the ivy doth the elm
In his lithe arms? A feather'd sprig, with blossom
Shaped like a cockle-fish or butterfly:
Why there's your secret!

Eleanor.
Where? tell me! I'll give thee
Comfits made from the whites of deadmen's eyes!—

Dwerga.
Pish on thy comfits and thy deadmen's eyes!
Let me torment these lovers for thy meed.

Eleanor.
What lovers? who?

Dwerga.
The Broom-sprig and the Rose,
Thou silly Queen!—Malice and silliness
Make up earth's meanest creature!—Who is now
The sprig that bears the cockled-butterfly,
But thy Plantagenet—planta-genista?

Eleanor.
And who the rose?

Dwerga.
That 's more a riddle to me.—
Sweat brain!—Perchance some trull whose name is Rose,
Or Rosalind, or—stop! it lightens on me!—
This undulous snake cut here, great Jormungandr—
As Runic rhymesters call him—doth set forth
Ocean, that ever on his belly rolling,
Coils round the convex world; which world the rim
Doth therefore stand for: whence the Rose itself
In our quaint stone-cutter's device but means,
Rose of the World,—that is, plain Rosa-Mundi;
Plantagenet and Rosamond are the lovers!

Eleanor.
But there may be many Rosamonds in the realm?

Dwerga.
Seek the most fair: that's she. Plantagenet hath
A hawk's eye for sweet duckling, though he stopp'd
His maw with fishy thee.

Eleanor.
Would I could do
Without thy hateful service!

Dwerga.
Thou canst not:
A weak and wicked mind must ever have
A cunning, evil-loving minister
To work its ends; must be the jest at once,
Hatred and scorn and tool of its own slave.
I 've a rare merit for a minister,—
Sincerity! What think ye, grandam?—Go you
Now to the wise-folk to collogue with them
Who Rosamond, the fair unknown, may be?

Eleanor.
I must gulp this,
Howe'er so bitter; but the long, large draught
Of honey-sweet revenge will drown it all!

[Exit.
Dwerga.
Go on, good grandam! I'll stick in thy skirts,
Like a live burr; Fear not! Hu! hu! hex! hex!
[Sings as she follows.

SCENE III.

A State Chamber. The Council assembled.
Cornwall, Clare, Leicester, Becket, De Bohun, De Lucy, Grand Prior, Winchester.
Cornwall.

Well met, my lords: what makes us here so
soon after cock-crow?

Clare.

I can tell as little as Sir Chanticleer himself;—
perhaps his Highness's conscience-keeper has the secret?

Leicester.

Ay, Chancellor, how judge you?

Becket.

What I, gentlemen? In good truth my knowledge
on the matter does not exceed your own, nor is my
judgment any deeper than yours,— (Aside)
and that is
very shallow; my guesses may pierce a little farther indeed!

De Lucy.
Silence; here 's the King!

Enter Henry.
Henry.
Fair morning.—Ha? when comes the trial on
Before our bench, of that law-breaking priest?

Becket.
To-morrow, Sire, I hope.

Winchester.
It cannot be.

Henry.
It cannot, bishop? wherefore?

Winchester.
Sire, I fear
There may be obstacles.

Henry.
Pshaw!—cliffs and gulfs
Are obstacles to grasshoppers, not eagles.—
Archbishop Theobald is dead, my lords:
Whom shall we give the regular chapter leave
To elect? Who shall be Primate, cousin Clare?

Clare.
What thinks your Highness of the Abbot Blaise?

Henry.
Too old! too old!—I've had enough of greybeards!
Age renders obstinate, and knots and gnarls
The bent of our green-grown opinions. I
Still less than conjugal, love stale episcopal
Petticoat government!—Your man, Grand Prior?

Grand Prior.
My Lord of Winton here, though like an oak
Hoary at top, has sap enough; and fame
Of wisdom for a kingdom.

Henry.
He has too little
Even for himself, or else he had not cross'd me.—
O Prior, 'twere too rough and wearisome
An office for my lord; too full of ‘obstacles;’
I would not throw them in the velvet path
His wisdom rightly chooses to the grave.—You, Constable?

De Bohun.
I'm no thinker.

Henry.
What say you, Chancellor?

Becket.
My gracious liege, I have no choice but yours:
That will, as ever it is, be most discriminate,
Profoundest, wisest; all-advantageous,
For him, the kingdom, and your royal self.

Henry.
So think I!—Gentlemen, salute his grace
Thomas à Becket, our good Chancellor,
Archbishop of Canterbury, and Primate of all England.

Lords.
Our best congratulations to his grace!

Becket.
My liege, let my humility decline
This honour, I beseech—

Henry
(in his ear).
Nay, Thomas, keep
For imposition-time i' the church, your Nolo
Archi-episcopari!—Put this other
Pigeon into thy scrip, poor man!—
(Aloud.)
We've said it:
Now that is done we call'd ye hither for,
To give some state and solemnness to the deed
Ere it be sanctified by ritual
Which we much reverence, and will observe
In all its just assumptions,—now disperse,
Each to his several duty. I to mine.

[Exit.
[The Lords take leave, with much courtesy towards Becket.
Becket.
Your lordships' lowliest, most devoted slave!—
[Exeunt Lords.
The Second Man of the kingdom!—My ambition
Mounts then its hoped-for towery throne; and there
Sits crown'd with the proud mitre, scarce o'ertopp'd
By one star of the regal diadem!—
Am I indeed the son of Gilbert Becket?—
How my soul swells!—like his who pinnacled
On some high-pitch'd, realm-skirted promontory,
Takes in the immensities around, beneath,
Skies, seas, and continents, with rapturous gaze!
How mine eye kindles! How my spirit burns
Like yon great sun, brighter as it moves higher!—
My very frame seems grown gigantical!
I feel as I could overstride the earth—
Yea, grasp heaven's ruling orbs in my two hands!
Thou purer air that makest the mountain-pine
Shoot up till he befits his lofty station,
Why shouldst thou not descend in nourishing dews
To make high-natured men pre-eminent
Of form as mind?—Becket! thou 'rt in the clouds;
Sublimity makes thy brain swim—thou 'rt not fit for it!
He 's only great who can despise his greatness.
Be not the night-fly drawn into the flame
By thy blind love of splendour, and there burnt!
True Magnanimity hath no outward measure,
Nor is reveal'd by that. Is not the emmet
Sagacious as the elephant? To our minds
Alone, we may—by custom of great thoughts,
By venturous deeds and versancy with power,
Ambrosial food of books, august discourse,
By ever straining towards some height from which
Our former selves look little—to our minds
We may add stature, cubit upon cubit,
Until in them we become Anakim,
Nobler than earth e'er form'd!—
'Tis reasonable,
I do confess, to think that this fine essence,
Grandeur of soul, should breathe itself throughout
The mien and movements: every word should speak it,
Howe'er so calm—like the pleased lion's murmur!
Each tone, glance, posture, should be great with it.
All levity of air, too buoyant cheer,
The o'er-familiar smile, salute , and chat
Which sinks us to the low and common level,
Should be dismiss'd, and giant-minded things
Disclaim the pigmy natural to most men.—
No doubt!—that 's well!—that 's very well.—
The Second Man of the kingdom!—This is much,
And yet I might be more!—Not just the first,
That were scarce possible; but—but—co-equal!
To become which there gleams a ray. O Becket!
What a brave course to run! lustrous, celestial,
As thy bright birth-star's, when he would ascend
To the world's zenith! Clouds and storms will gather
Round him—nay, blot him o'er; but through them he
Bursts soon, as I shall!—If at last he falls,
He falls in splendour,—and all men must die!

[Exit.

SCENE IV.

The Queen's Apartment.
Maids of Honour.
1st Maid.

Set all to rights: stir! stir!—See that the
royal stool has its valance tucked up behind, like a house
wife's skirt of a week-day,—or we shall get a scolding only
proper for scullions.

2d Maid.

Be brisk, lasses!—no one can tell when the
devil 's at our elbow till we feel it pinched.

3d Maid.

Will you never put away that mirror, Marian?
The Queen detests all reflectors as much as you doat on
them.

4th Maid.

Do ye know why? Because Eleanor sees a
black angel in them, and Marian a blonde one.

3d Maid.

Ha! ha! ha! the vanity—look at her simperings!

1st Maid.

Hush for your lives! Don't let a cricket's

mirth be heard among us; she hates that too worse than a
death-watch.

3d Maid.

She thinks every jest aimed against herself—
she's so good a but for it: that is her jealous and suspectful
nature.

4th Maid.

Pooh! then we shall have all the magpies
banished from the park, because in her walks they seem to
chatter and chuckle at her.

[Exit, and returns.
2d Maid.

Get thee gone, i' the Witch of Wokey's name!
—here she comes, pondering and plotting with her Evil
Genius.

3d Maid.

What! with our dwarf governess? that extract
of nettle-stings?

2d Maid.

No, thank our stars!—but with the devil that
possesses and tears her, Jealousy? Mum!

[Enter Eleanor, who sits. The Maids of Honour stand a-row behind her.
Eleanor.

One of you has a sister, or some relative, called
Rosalind—or Rosamond—eh? Or some such fantastical
embroiderment of plain Rose—eh?

3d Maid.

Yes, Madam: the name of my cousin's step-mother's
niece,—no, my cousin's step-father's grand-niece,
by the female side,—is, if it please your highness, Rosette.

Eleanor.

Nothing but Rosette, after such an ear-breaking
pedigree?—away with her! None other of ye,—eh?
Confess the truth, or it shall be torn from your tongue's-ends
by burning pincers: confess!

2d Maid.

I have a sister Rosamond, your highness.

Eleanor.

Ha! I thought truth would come out! Is she
well-favoured?

2d Maid.

Yes, Madam; fresh and fragrant, as bright of
bloom and as innocent as a rosebud itself.

Eleanor.

Innocent? hear this!—So! so! so! so!—She
was at the Chancellor's revel last night, your immaculate
Rosebud?

2d Maid.

Madam, I believe not—

Eleanor.

She was—Hypocrisy! Disguised there, and
skulking into every corner save the kennel, where she
should!—She was there, I say!

2d Maid.

Truly then, Madam, not to contradict your
highness, it must have been unknown to her nurse,—for
she is yet but seven years old.

Eleanor.

Indeed?— (Aside.)
How the Fury, for all her
blazing torch, misleads me! Well, knows any one besides
of a Rosamond, kin or acquaintance?

1st Maid.

There 's Rosamond de Ros—

Eleanor.

What years has she?

1st Maid.

As I guess, Madam, some fewer than ninety
—She is one of the Gray Sisters.

Eleanor.

Humph!—a withered Rose; let her rot! Who
else?—tell me no more of your babes or bearded women.

4th Maid.

O lack! there 's another Rosamond—the
goatherd's daughter!

Eleanor.

Goatherd? goatherd? Paint her to me. The
king in sooth has some goatish propensities.

4th Maid.

Madam, red-haired as a fox, and of a roan
complexion: she is as huge of mouth and hideous as the
Ogress that makes but four mouthfuls of an ox, and bolts
little children for white bread—

Eleanor.

Good: that's enough.

4th Maid.

There's Rosamond de Clifford too, Madam.

Eleanor.

Ay, what's she?

4th Maid.

Why, Madam, if it please your grace, as beautiful
as Aurora of a May-morning.

Eleanor
(starting up).

Tell me her height to an inch—
her hair, her walk?

4th Maid.

Madam, so please you, her shape is about
mine, as near as may be.

Eleanor.

Your shape?—She's taller, is she not? Less
pursy too; less fat of the land upon her,—eh?

4th Maid.

My very form and mien, Madam.

Eleanor.

The King love such a blowsabel?—Has any
one else seen this Rosamond? Is she like our dairymaid here?

3d Maid.

Madam, as like as if they were stamped with
the one butter-print!

2d Maid.

O yes, Madam: both made of the same Dutch
cheese!

1st Maid.

Twin-dishes of last week's curds, garnished
with carrots to give them a colour!

Eleanor.

So much the better!—Her eyes, nose, mouth,
complexion, what?

4th Maid.

My own, Madam.

Eleanor.

Why, your eyes are round, small, green-gray,
and rimmed with red like a carrier-pigeon's; your nose
perks out from the middle of your face like the boss of a
child's target; and your complexion is as pallid and silver-sick
as a leper!

4th Maid.

Madam, indeed, notwithstanding my disparagers
here, Demoiselle de Clifford is called in her own shire—
Fair Rosamond.

2d Maid.

Fair, means nothing but white there: she has,
you know, as her highness said, your parsnip skin and complexion.

1st Maid.

Besides, she squints, and can look all round
her, before and behind, like a rabbit.

3d Maid.

Like a rabbit? nay, she has something of a
hare-lip, that's certain; but to my thinking the worst about
her is, she halts on the right leg.

4th Maid.

Indeed I did hear she has six fingers to one
hand,—now I have but five to either.

Dwerga
(from behind).
That 's she! that 's she! as sure as jealous Folly
Is of the feminine gender!—None but one,
The paragon of her sex, could stir so much
Green gall against her; as we see the Moon
Hooted by choleric owls for her strange brightness!—
Fair Rosamond is thy foil, thy rival, Queen!
Seek her; she 'll soon shine out. Why, she must be
A blazing-star of beauty, who can make
These pale-faced mortals see such ruin in her!

Eleanor.
Rather that yellow worm whose reptile fire
Shall lead my foot to tread it out!

Dwerga.
True! true!
Sweet grandam!—Like a she-fox driven to cover,
The death-expecting glare of her fine eyes
Shall beacon us towards her den. I 'll be the terrier
To worry her out; but you shan't muzzle me.

Eleanor.
How is it I ne'er heard of her before?

Dwerga.
O! O! O! O! tell thee of a ripe cherry
Which all the birds peck at, and thou thyself
A piece of wither'd bark, fit for the tanner!
That were rare courtiership!

Eleanor.
‘Fit for the tanner!’
I 'll see if I can pierce thy hide, thou harden'd one—
[Strikes a silver bodkin into her.
Next time I 'll stitch thy saucy lips with it.
Scorn is thy mother-tongue, and borne because
Thou speak'st none else: but thou 'rt of late become
Malicious as old Hecate's pet of monkeys.

Dwerga
(between her teeth).
Curse thee!—
Why, so I am old Hecate's pet,
Being thine!—No more of that sharp nudger, pray thee!—
[Eleanor threatens it.
Not saucy, Mistress sweet! but cockahoop
With pride and hope to serve thee!— (Aside.)
I could maul her!

Eleanor.
To roost there!—go!—begone!

Dwerga.
In you, before me,
Spawn-colour'd things! I 'll give ye chalk enough
To feed ye white.—Must they not in with me?

Eleanor.
Ay!—
[Exeunt Dwerga and Maidens.
I 'm sick of ye all, myself, mankind, the world,
And gladly could groan out my rest of life
Upon the dust this moment!—Thou shalt rue
Thy pretty nickname yet, Fair Rosamond!
To compass that will be a pastime!—Yea,
I shall love well to catch this noxious gnat,
And lean upon my wrist to mark its pain
As it writhes round my bodkin, buzzing there
Its feeble soul away in shrilly cries.—
Beware of Eleanor, La Belle Disconnue!

[Exit.

SCENE V.

A Room in the Palace.
Henry, Prince Henry, Clare, De Lucy, De Eynsford, Glanville, De Bohun, Fitz-Urse, Radel, and other Courtiers.
Henry.
We are now at the goal of all our wishes,
Now have we all our quarries within clutch,
Both Church and State are now beneath our rule,
The Crosier being fast bound unto the Sceptre;
Now are we doubly king—ha, cousin Clare?

Clare.
Most true, my liege! for now your other self
The Archbishop reigns associate in the realm,
Heaven save your Majesties!

Henry.
Nay, one too much!
But you shall shout that blessing with more joy,
Albeit less jocular, when some seasons hence
My little Harry here and I sit crown'd
Together. Will it not be brave, young Sir?

Prince Henry.
Yes, and 'twill be my right; my mother told me.
Oh, I 'll be such a king! I 'll have a gown
Of velvet stiff with gold, and a tall plume
Shall flap you in the eyes when you look o'er me.

Henry.
Bold boy!—He makes a cock-horse of my truncheon
When he can snatch it; and will make me, too,
Bear him about the chamber on my back
When Dick and he play kings; then both will mount
And lead their jaded father such a time!
You 'd laugh to see the round-faced little villains,
How earnest they 're about it!—You are a father
Too, Cousin!

Clare.
Yes, but not an o'er-indulgent.—
Mark how his kingling-ship strides through the hall!

Henry.
He 's proud of his great yesterday; when Gwyneth
Prince of North Wales, and Rheese of South, did homage
At Woodstock, to us both as suzerains.
The memory glads even me; 'twas a white day,
And promises long peace: that Scotland's king,
Malcolm the Maiden, likewise, should bow down
Before my throne, and give his brother David
As hostage for his faith—yes, all this fill'd
My cup of joy to overflowing. France
Hates us, but dreads; and hoists her ensign pale
Begging for truce, where late her oriflamme
Hung dripping o'er War's bed its bloody sheet.
Now shall my subjects, like myself, throw by
Contention's pillow, set with iron thorns,
And rest from home as well as foreign brawls.—
My Lord Justiciary!—
[To him.
We must reform
The Courts; look you to that, Richard de Lucy!
Justice, not blind, nor with both eyes a-squint
As they are deem'd, but even and lustrous-bright,
Shall fix their cold orbs on all things beneath her,
With thorough-piercing rays, like winter stars,
And not less pure from earthly influence.
Plantagenet will be Pater Patriæ.—
My Lord High Constable!—
[To him.
Let Commissioners
Take census of all knights' lands which were known
Under my grandsire Harry Beauclerc; state
The services of each due to the crown,—
Their name, their neighbourhood, their punctual nature;
That so we may, at once and without fail,
As Paul's bell sets the curfeus all a-tolling,
Summon the realm's strength to defend its rights.

De Bohun.
'Twill be a work like Domesday-Book, or better!

Henry.
But most we must restrain those sacred robbers—
Those cowl'd and hooded highwaymen, the priests,
Who fright my lieges, with the deadliest threats,
Out of their coin, for venial faults; those Jews
In Christian gaberdines, whose belts of rope
Should be about their necks, and not their middles;
Who drain the poor man's purse, for penances
And absolutions, till it hang as meagre
As a dried eel-skin, and himself scarce fatter.
They, by this means, more taxes raise, 'fore heaven,
Than come to our Exchequer!—What say you,
Glanville, our jurist deep?

Glanville.
Their bold rapacity
Stops not at threats; nor their licentiousness
At love of money. My report saith here,
[Taking out a scroll.
An hundred murders, besides rapts and thefts,
Have been, by priests alone, committed, since
Primo Henrici Secundi to this present—
I would say since your Majesty's accession—
That 's scarce a dozen years. This Clerk, to wit,
Of Worcester, now before the Court, at first
Seduced the daughter, and then slew the sire—

Henry.
Yet these hot sons o' the Church will have him stand
Before their loose tribunal! to amerce him
Perchance in one cup less of wine per day
Out of his flagon—that themselves may sin
And suffer at like rate!—It shall not be!

De Eynsford.
Fain would the Mitre jostle with the Crown.

Henry.
Then let the weaker vessel of the two
Be crack'd, be crush'd to dust, though it be mine!
No! that bold rivalry must have an end;
Now is the time, now while my own Archbishop
Is aidant and abettant—

De Eynsford.
Here he comes.

Henry.
Good! Make him broad way for his suite and train,
Until he stand before us.
Enter Becket in monk's apparel, a small crucifix in his hands; attended by Gryme.
Welcome, our Chancellor!
Our Primate, and chief Dignitary of the Crown!—
(Seeing him).
Hey, Thomas?—No?—My lord!—Your Grace!—how 's this?
Are we to masquerade it o'er again,
By day as well as night?—What means this drugget?
A shirt too of black horse-hair that peeps out
Coyly beneath his tunic! and clog-slippers
To sheathe his hoseless feet!—Where shall I find
Thomas à Becket under all these weeds?

Becket.
He will be seen anon.

Henry.
Thou 'rt in eclipse
Show forth thy honest face again!—Thou who
Wert wont to look so boon, and meet thy king
With aspect shining in the oil of gladness,
And such a flush of fervour on thy cheek
That every feature melted in the smile,—
Wherefore this face of adamant to me now?

Becket.
I am not what I was!

Henry.
What! not my Chancellor?

Becket.
No more, my liege:
I come to render up that worldly office
So ill-beseeming one now minister
But to the King of Kings—Pray you, receive it.

[Surrendering his staff of office.
Henry.
Ay? cast your staff official from you thus,
Without consulting me?

Becket.
Sir, even so:
I did consult two things which cannot err,—
My conscience and this blessed crucifix.

[Kisses it.
Henry.
Ha!—Has a serpent crept from out the dust
Up my throne-steps to sting me i' the back,
And slide away under the altar then?

Becket.
You do mistake me much: I have put off
My former self as worse than childishness,
The pomp and pride of state, the carnal mass
Of sin that swell'd most hideous on my shoulders
Bending me to the earth: I would become
By prayer, self-discipline, and mortification,
In very deed the consecrated thing
I am in name. But this is all! My love,
Allegiance, loyalty, are what they were,
And should be, still.

Henry.
“You do mistake me much”—
“A consecrated thing”—and “that is all”—
Then prithee, Heart's-Ease! since you show two faces
Under one hood—changed, and not changed—let 's have
Some proof you are the man we spoke with yesterday:
The trial of that Clerk comes on at noon
Before our Bench—is it not so?

Becket.
My liege,
I have considered—much—upon the matter—

Henry.
Ay, with your conscience and your crucifix,
Which you took but small counsel of before!—
Hypocrite!

Becket.
Nay, most faithful, frank, and fair!
See you how innocent am I of this:
Here is a rescript of Archbishop Theobald
(And I must yield unto so good a man!)
Inhibiting the trial of all priests
Before profane tribunals.

Henry.
That I gave you
Admitted, not inhibited, false monk!

Becket.
But this another is, and later one.—
Good Richard, show his Majesty the parchment
[To Gryme, who shows it.
Sign'd by my predecessor, and given up
Even with the ghost.

Henry.
Fitz-Urse, I say! Fitz-Urse?

Fitz-Urse.
Dread sire, I fear 'tis so: that villain Gryme,
Your Grace's confidant, betray'd his trust,
And in the old man's moments of last weakness
(I being shut out as one of the profane)
He got this ready deed Death's signature,
Incapable of correction or erasement,
And gave 't to Becket.

Becket.
Becket, thou insolent!
Know who I am—beneath the King alone,
And him but in a temporal sense—above
Even him, as representative of St. Peter,
And God's vice-gerent on this English earth.

Clare
(to Glanville).
I thought humility sat heavy on him,
So off he throws it—like a sin!

Glanville.
He 's evidence
Against himself. Mark how the King's eye glitters!

Henry.
Have I then thrust my most delicious sops
Into the mouth of an ungrateful dog
That turns and strives to tear the hand which fed him?—
Well then, our Saxon proxy of St. Peter,
To give thee further time for prayer, full swing
For self-disciplinance (which I confess
Thou hast great need of!) here thou art relieved
Of that most duteous office, and much worldly,
The Arch-deaconship—thou 'lt find perchance in this
Some taste of mortification to begin with!

Becket.
My liege, the archdeaconry is a church holding—

Henry.
By Mahound, you say well! and therefore shall
A churchman have it:—Geoffrey Radel, ha?

Radel.
Sire.

Henry.
Be the new archdeacon of Canterbury.—
Farewell, Saint Thomas!—Ply your beads and scourge
Fast as you please: we will not stay to lett you!

[Exeunt King and Courtiers.
Becket.
My heartiest hate, and hater, made archdeacon
Of my own See!—that is a thorn which gores,
Not merely pricks the side!—Archdeacon? rather
Arch-devil!—He will raise a hurricane
To rock my belfries—yea, will ride it too!
But let him fear a shower of blood may lay it,
From his own sides!—This fate of grandeur, I
Look'd for; the sky-ascending bird becomes
The plainer mark. Why, hypocrite?—hypocrite!
Were not my services unto the King
Sincerest, whilst I was his servant? Now
That I am servant of the Church alone,
Should they not be sincere to it? His fault,
If foe to it, he thus will make him mine!
No man can serve two masters,—save they be
At one!—Am I to blame that loftier steps
Give larger views, and clear from mists, through which
Haply I err'd where they are thick below?—
Howe'er he choose to reason it, let him!—Here
He hath mark'd out the mortal lists, and trumpeted
Himself to the high combat; he hath thrown
His glove even in my cheek! Becket may chance
Return it with a gaunlet, that shall fall
Upon him like an iron meteor!—
I can divine him thoroughly, and his purposes!
This king delves hard beneath St. Peter's rock;
But ere it sink an inch, the mighty coign
Shall bruise him, past more sapping, with its shoulder!
We are upon the eve of chances strange;
Heaven will defend its own!

SCENE VI.

A Street in London. Fitz-Urse and Fier-à-bras.
Fitz-Urse.
Spare not the rowel, good Sir Mottram! Speed
To Clifford Castle, and fetch thence as swift
Thy precious charge, girt with a loyal band
Of lusty gentlemen, for grace and guard,
To Woodstock, to the Labyrinth; of that,
As of the Lady's self, thou art made Warder.

Fier-à-bras.
Thou 'rt the king's under-voice; 'tis he that speaks?

Fitz-Urse.
He! (Showing a signet.)

Fail in nought: thou know'st his fiery humour
When his strong will is foil'd; though he be else
So mild of mood and soothable.

Fier-à-bras.
Gramercy!
I love not dallying with the lion's beard
Though he 's a generous beast!—it has been pluck'd too,
Sorely of late.—I would I were an arrow!

[Going.
Fitz-Urse.
You'd miss your mark then! Stay a pace: take this,—
[Giving a letter.
Else will the turtle-dove scarce trust herself
I' the clutches of so grim a kite—flee! flee!
[Exit Fier-à-bras.
Her father sickens, and fierce Eleanor threatens,
Or she would never leave her brake at Clifford
For all this Woodstock cooing of the king!—
Plague on 't! what trouble and lost time to lay
Love's ambush! If not all beset with flowers,
And a plush alley made to 't for her feet,
Dove-calls to lure her, streams to purl persuasion,
Nice-footed Woman will not step into 't!
She will sin daintily, be humour'd to 't,
Or take huff, and not sin at all! She loves
The pleasant way to 't more than the place itself!
When you find Reginald Fitz-Urse employ'd
Digging a pitfal for a fawn to pet,
May he be caught himself!—Plague on the foolery!

[Exit.