PAGET. I am but of the laity, my Lord Bishop, And may not read your Bible, yet I found One day, a wholesome scripture, 'Little children, Love one another.'
GARDINER. Did you find a scripture, 'I come not to bring peace but a sword'? The sword Is in her Grace's hand to smite with. Paget, You stand up here to fight for heresy, You are more than guess'd at as a heretic, And on the steep-up track of the true faith Your lapses are far seen.
PAGET. The faultless Gardiner!
MARY. You brawl beyond the question; speak, Lord Legate!
POLE. Indeed, I cannot follow with your Grace: Rather would say--the shepherd doth not kill The sheep that wander from his flock, but sends His careful dog to bring them to the fold.
Look to the Netherlands, wherein have been Such holocausts of heresy! to what end?
For yet the faith is not established there.
GARDINER. The end's not come.
POLE. No--nor this way will come, Seeing there lie two ways to every end, A better and a worse--the worse is here To persecute, because to persecute Makes a faith hated, and is furthermore No perfect witness of a perfect faith In him who persecutes: when men are tost On tides of strange opinion, and not sure Of their own selves, they are wroth with their own selves, And thence with others; then, who lights the faggot?
Not the full faith, no, but the lurking doubt.
Old Rome, that first made martyrs in the Church, Trembled for her own gods, for these were trembling-- But when did our Rome tremble?
PAGET. Did she not In Henry's time and Edward's?
POLE. What, my Lord!
The Church on Peter's rock? never! I have seen A pine in Italy that cast its shadow Athwart a cataract; firm stood the pine-- The cataract shook the shadow. To my mind, The cataract typed the headlong plunge and fall Of heresy to the pit: the pine was Rome.
You see, my Lords, It was the shadow of the Church that trembled; Your church was but the shadow of a church, Wanting the Papal mitre.
GARDINER (_muttering_). Here be tropes.
POLE. And tropes are good to clothe a naked truth, And make it look more seemly.
GARDINER. Tropes again!
POLE. You are hard to please. Then without tropes, my Lord, An overmuch severeness, I repeat, When faith is wavering makes the waverer pass Into more settled hatred of the doctrines Of those who rule, which hatred by and by Involves the ruler (thus there springs to light That Centaur of a monstrous Commonweal, The traitor-heretic) then tho' some may quail, Yet others are that dare the stake and fire, And their strong torment bravely borne, begets An admiration and an indignation, And hot desire to imitate; so the plague Of schism spreads; were there but three or four Of these misleaders, yet I would not say Burn! and we cannot burn whole towns; they are many, As my Lord Paget says.
GARDINER. Yet my Lord Cardinal--
POLE. I am your Legate; please you let me finish.
Methinks that under our Queen's regimen We might go softlier than with crimson rowel And streaming lash. When Herod-Henry first Began to batter at your English Church, This was the cause, and hence the judgment on her.
She seethed with such adulteries, and the lives Of many among your churchmen were so foul That heaven wept and earth blush'd. I would advise That we should thoroughly cleanse the Church within Before these bitter statutes be requicken'd.
So after that when she once more is seen White as the light, the spotless bride of Christ, Like Christ himself on Tabor, possibly The Lutheran may be won to her again; Till when, my Lords, I counsel tolerance.
GARDINER. What, if a mad dog bit your hand, my Lord, Would you not chop the bitten finger off, Lest your whole body should madden with the poison?
I would not, were I Queen, tolerate the heretic, No, not an hour. The ruler of a land Is bounden by his power and place to see His people be not poison'd. Tolerate them!
Why? do they tolerate you? Nay, many of them Would burn--have burnt each other; call they not The one true faith, a loathsome idol-worship?
Beware, Lord Legate, of a heavier crime Than heresy is itself; beware, I say, Lest men accuse you of indifference To all faiths, all religion; for you know Right well that you yourself have been supposed Tainted with Lutheranism in Italy.
POLE (_angered_). But you, my Lord, beyond all supposition, In clear and open day were congruent With that vile Cranmer in the accursed lie Of good Queen Catherine's divorce--the spring Of all those evils that have flow'd upon us; For you yourself have truckled to the tyrant, And done your best to bastardise our Queen, For which God's righteous judgment fell upon you In your five years of imprisonment, my Lord, Under young Edward. Who so bolster'd up The gross King's headship of the Church, or more Denied the Holy Father!
GARDINER. Ha! what! eh?
But you, my Lord, a polish'd gentleman, A bookman, flying from the heat and tussle, You lived among your vines and oranges, In your soft Italy yonder! You were sent for.
You were appeal'd to, but you still preferr'd Your learned leisure. As for what I did I suffer'd and repented. You, Lord Legate And Cardinal-Deacon, have not now to learn That ev'n St. Peter in his time of fear Denied his Master, ay, and thrice, my Lord.
POLE. But not for five-and-twenty years, my Lord.
GARDINER. Ha! good! it seems then I was summon'd hither But to be mock'd and baited. Speak, friend Bonner, And tell this learned Legate he lacks zeal.
The Church's evil is not as the King's, Cannot be heal'd by stroking. The mad bite Must have the cautery--tell him--and at once.
What would'st thou do hadst thou his power, thou That layest so long in heretic bonds with me; Would'st thou not burn and blast them root and branch?
BONNER. Ay, after you, my Lord.
GARDINER. Nay, God's passion, before me! speak'
BONNER. I am on fire until I see them flame.
GARDINER. Ay, the psalm-singing weavers, cobblers, scum-- But this most noble prince Plantagenet, Our good Queen's cousin--dallying over seas Even when his brother's, nay, his noble mother's, Head fell--
POLE. Peace, madman!
Thou stirrest up a grief thou canst not fathom.
Thou Christian Bishop, thou Lord Chancellor Of England! no more rein upon thine anger Than any child! Thou mak'st me much ashamed That I was for a moment wroth at thee.
MARY. I come for counsel and ye give me feuds, Like dogs that set to watch their master's gate, Fall, when the thief is ev'n within the walls, To worrying one another. My Lord Chancellor, You have an old trick of offending us; And but that you are art and part with us In purging heresy, well we might, for this Your violence and much roughness to the Legate, Have shut you from our counsels. Cousin Pole, You are fresh from brighter lands. Retire with me.
His Highness and myself (so you allow us) Will let you learn in peace and privacy What power this cooler sun of England hath In breeding godless vermin. And pray Heaven That you may see according to our sight.
Come, cousin.
[_Exeunt_ QUEEN _and_ POLE, _etc_.
GARDINER. Pole has the Plantagenet face, But not the force made them our mightiest kings.
Fine eyes--but melancholy, irresolute-- A fine beard, Bonner, a very full fine beard.
But a weak mouth, an indeterminate--ha?
BONNER. Well, a weak mouth, perchance.
GARDINER. And not like thine To gorge a heretic whole, roasted or raw.
BONNER. I'd do my best, my Lord; but yet the Legate Is here as Pope and Master of the Church, And if he go not with you--
GARDINER. Tut, Master Bishop, Our bashful Legate, saw'st not how he flush'd?
Touch him upon his old heretical talk, He'll burn a diocese to prove his orthodoxy.
And let him call me truckler. In those times, Thou knowest we had to dodge, or duck, or die; I kept my head for use of Holy Church; And see you, we shall have to dodge again, And let the Pope trample our rights, and plunge His foreign fist into our island Church To plump the leaner pouch of Italy.
For a time, for a time.
Why? that these statutes may be put in force, And that his fan may thoroughly purge his floor.
BONNER. So then you hold the Pope--
GARDINER. I hold the Pope!
What do I hold him? what do I hold the Pope?
Come, come, the morsel stuck--this Cardinal's fault-- I have gulpt it down. I am wholly for the Pope, Utterly and altogether for the Pope, The Eternal Peter of the changeless chair, Crown'd slave of slaves, and mitred king of kings, God upon earth! what more? what would you have?
Hence, let's be gone.
_Enter_ USHER.
USHER. Well that you be not gone, My Lord. The Queen, most wroth at first with you, Is now content to grant you full forgiveness, So that you crave full pardon of the Legate.