POLE. 'After his kind it costs him nothing,' there's An old world English adage to the point.
These are but natural graces, my good Bishop, Which in the Catholic garden are as flowers, But on the heretic dunghill only weeds.
HOWARD. Such weeds make dunghills gracious.
MARY. Enough, my Lords.
It is God's will, the Holy Father's will, And Philip's will, and mine, that he should burn.
He is pronounced anathema.
HOWARD. Farewell, Madam, God grant you ampler mercy at your call Than you have shown to Cranmer.
[_Exeunt_ LORDS.
POLE. After this, Your Grace will hardly care to overlook This same petition of the foreign exiles For Cranmer's life.
MARY. Make out the writ to-night.
[_Exeunt_.
SCENE II.--OXFORD. CRANMER IN PRISON.
CRANMER. Last night, I dream'd the faggots were alight, And that myself was fasten'd to the stake, I And found it all a visionary flame, Cool as the light in old decaying wood; And then King Harry look'd from out a cloud, And bad me have good courage; and I heard An angel cry 'There is more joy in Heaven,'-- And after that, the trumpet of the dead.
[_Trumpets without_.
Why, there are trumpets blowing now: what is it?
_Enter_ FATHER COLE.
COLE. Cranmer, I come to question you again; Have you remain'd in the true Catholic faith I left you in?
CRANMER. In the true Catholic faith, By Heaven's grace, I am more and more confirm'd.
Why are the trumpets blowing, Father Cole?
COLE. Cranmer, it is decided by the Council That you to-day should read your recantation Before the people in St. Mary's Church.
And there be many heretics in the town, Who loathe you for your late return to Rome, And might assail you passing through the street, And tear you piecemeal: so you have a guard.
CRANMER. Or seek to rescue me. I thank the Council.
COLE. Do you lack any money?
CRANMER. Nay, why should I?
The prison fare is good enough for me.
COLE. Ay, but to give the poor.
CRANMER. Hand it me, then!
I thank you.
COLE. For a little space, farewell; Until I see you in St. Mary's Church.
[_Exit_ COLE.
CRANMER. It is against all precedent to burn One who recants; they mean to pardon me.
To give the poor--they give the poor who die.
Well, burn me or not burn me I am fixt; It is but a communion, not a mass: A holy supper, not a sacrifice; No man can make his Maker--Villa Garcia.
_Enter_ VILLA GARCIA.
VILLA GARCIA. Pray you write out this paper for me, Cranmer.
CRANMER. Have I not writ enough to satisfy you?
VILLA GARCIA. It is the last.
CRANMER. Give it me, then.
[_He writes_.
VILLA GARCIA. Now sign.
CRANMER. I have sign'd enough, and I will sign no more.
VILLA GARCIA. It is no more than what you have sign'd already, The public form thereof.
CRANMER. It may be so; I sign it with my presence, if I read it.
VILLA GARCIA. But this is idle of you. Well, sir, well, You are to beg the people to pray for you; Exhort them to a pure and virtuous life; Declare the Queen's right to the throne; confess Your faith before all hearers; and retract That Eucharistic doctrine in your book.
Will you not sign it now?
CRANMER. No, Villa Garcia, I sign no more. Will they have mercy on me?
VILLA GARCIA. Have you good hopes of mercy!
So, farewell.
[_Exit_.
CRANMER. Good hopes, not theirs, have I that I am fixt, Fixt beyond fall; however, in strange hours, After the long brain-dazing colloquies, And thousand-times recurring argument Of those two friars ever in my prison, When left alone in my despondency, Without a friend, a book, my faith would seem Dead or half-drown'd, or else swam heavily Against the huge corruptions of the Church, Monsters of mistradition, old enough To scare me into dreaming, 'what am I, Cranmer, against whole ages?' was it so, Or am I slandering my most inward friend, To veil the fault of my most outward foe-- The soft and tremulous coward in the flesh?
O higher, holier, earlier, purer church, I have found thee and not leave thee any more.
It is but a communion, not a mass-- No sacrifice, but a life-giving feast!
(_Writes_.) So, so; this will I say--thus will I pray.
[_Puts up the paper_.
_Enter_ BONNER.
BONNER. Good day, old friend; what, you look somewhat worn; And yet it is a day to test your health Ev'n at the best: I scarce have spoken with you Since when?--your degradation. At your trial Never stood up a bolder man than you; You would not cap the Pope's commissioner-- Your learning, and your stoutness, and your heresy, Dumbfounded half of us. So, after that, We had to dis-archbishop and unlord, And make you simple Cranmer once again.
The common barber dipt your hair, and I Scraped from your finger-points the holy oil; And worse than all, you had to kneel to _me_; Which was not pleasant for you, Master Cranmer.
Now you, that would not recognise the Pope, And you, that would not own the Real Presence, Have found a real presence in the stake, Which frights you back into the ancient faith: And so you have recanted to the Pope.
How are the mighty fallen, Master Cranmer!
CRANMER. You have been more fierce against the Pope than I; But why fling back the stone he strikes me with?
[_Aside_.
O Bonner, if I ever did you kindness-- Power hath been given you to try faith by fire-- Pray you, remembering how yourself have changed, Be somewhat pitiful, after I have gone, To the poor flock--to women and to children-- That when I was archbishop held with me.