HOWARD. We talk and Cranmer suffers.
The kindliest man I ever knew; see, see, I speak of him in the past. Unhappy land!
Hard-natured Queen, half-Spanish in herself, And grafted on the hard-grain'd stock of Spain-- Her life, since Philip left her, and she lost Her fierce desire of bearing him a child, Hath, like a brief and bitter winter's day, Gone narrowing down and darkening to a close.
There will be more conspiracies, I fear.
PAGET. Ay, ay, beware of France.
HOWARD. O Paget, Paget!
I have seen heretics of the poorer sort, Expectant of the rack from day to day, To whom the fire were welcome, lying chain'd In breathless dungeons over steaming sewers, Fed with rank bread that crawl'd upon the tongue, And putrid water, every drop a worm, Until they died of rotted limbs; and then Cast on the dunghill naked, and become Hideously alive again from head to heel, Made even the carrion-nosing mongrel vomit With hate and horror.
PAGET. Nay, you sicken _me_ To hear you.
HOWARD. Fancy-sick; these things are done, Done right against the promise of this Queen Twice given.
PAGET. No faith with heretics, my Lord!
Hist! there be two old gossips--gospellers, I take it; stand behind the pillar here; I warrant you they talk about the burning.
_Enter_ TWO OLD WOMEN. JOAN, _and after her_ TIB.
JOAN. Why, it be Tib!
TIB. I cum behind tha, gall, and couldn't make tha hear. Eh, the wind and the wet! What a day, what a day! nigh upo' judgement daay loike.
Pwoaps be pretty things, Joan, but they wunt set i' the Lord's cheer o' that daay.
JOAN. I must set down myself, Tib; it be a var waay vor my owld legs up vro' Islip. Eh, my rheumatizy be that bad howiver be I to win to the burnin'.
TIB. I should saay 'twur ower by now. I'd ha' been here avore, but Dumble wur blow'd wi' the wind, and Dumble's the best milcher in Islip.
JOAN. Our Daisy's as good 'z her.
TIB. Noa, Joan.
JOAN. Our Daisy's butter's as good'z hern.
TIB. Noa, Joan.
JOAN. Our Daisy's cheeses be better.
TIB. Noa, Joan.
JOAN. Eh, then ha' thy waay wi' me, Tib; ez thou hast wi' thy owld man.
TIB. Ay, Joan, and my owld man wur up and awaay betimes wi' dree hard eggs for a good pleace at the burnin'; and barrin' the wet, Hodge 'ud ha' been a-harrowin' o' white peasen i' the outfield--and barrin' the wind, Dumble wur blow'd wi' the wind, so 'z we was forced to stick her, but we fetched her round at last. Thank the Lord therevore.
Dumble's the best milcher in Islip.
JOAN. Thou's thy way wi' man and beast, Tib. I wonder at tha', it beats me! Eh, but I do know ez Pwoaps and vires be bad things; tell 'ee now, I heerd summat as summun towld summun o' owld Bishop Gardiner's end; there wur an owld lord a-cum to dine wi' un, and a wur so owld a couldn't bide vor his dinner, but a had to bide howsomiver, vor 'I wunt dine,' says my Lord Bishop, says he, 'not till I hears ez Latimer and Ridley be a-vire;' and so they bided on and on till vour o' the clock, till his man cum in post vro' here, and tells un ez the vire has tuk holt. 'Now,' says the Bishop, says he, 'we'll gwo to dinner;' and the owld lord fell to 's meat wi' a will, God bless un!
but Gardiner wur struck down like by the hand o' God avore a could taste a mossel, and a set un all a-vire, so 'z the tongue on un cum a-lolluping out o' 'is mouth as black as a rat. Thank the Lord, therevore.
PAGET. The fools!
TIB. Ay, Joan; and Queen Mary gwoes on a-burnin' and a-burnin', to get her baaby born; but all her burnin's 'ill never burn out the hypocrisy that makes the water in her. There's nought but the vire of God's hell ez can burn out that.
JOAN. Thank the Lord, therevore.
PAGET. The fools!
TIB. A-burnin', and a-burnin', and a-makin' o' volk madder and madder; but tek thou my word vor't, Joan,--and I bean't wrong not twice i' ten year--the burnin' o' the owld archbishop'll burn the Pwoap out o'
this 'ere land vor iver and iver.
HOWARD. Out of the church, you brace of cursed crones, Or I will have you duck'd! (_Women hurry out_.) Said I not right? For how should reverend prelate or throned prince Brook for an hour such brute malignity? Ah, what an acrid wine has Luther brew'd!
PAGET. Pooh, pooh, my Lord! poor garrulous country-wives.
Buy you their cheeses, and they'll side with you; You cannot judge the liquor from the lees.
HOWARD. I think that in some sort we may. But see,
_Enter_ PETERS.
Peters, my gentleman, an honest Catholic, Who follow'd with the crowd to Cranmer's fire.
One that would neither misreport nor lie, Not to gain paradise: no, nor if the Pope, Charged him to do it--he is white as death.
Peters, how pale you look! you bring the smoke Of Cranmer's burning with you.
PETERS. Twice or thrice The smoke of Cranmer's burning wrapt me round.
HOWARD. Peters, you know me Catholic, but English.
Did he die bravely? Tell me that, or leave All else untold.
PETERS. My Lord, he died most bravely.
HOWARD. Then tell me all.
PAGET. Ay, Master Peters, tell us.
PETERS. You saw him how he past among the crowd; And ever as he walk'd the Spanish friars Still plied him with entreaty and reproach: But Cranmer, as the helmsman at the helm Steers, ever looking to the happy haven Where he shall rest at night, moved to his death; And I could see that many silent hands Came from the crowd and met his own; and thus When we had come where Ridley burnt with Latimer, He, with a cheerful smile, as one whose mind Is all made up, in haste put off the rags They had mock'd his misery with, and all in white, His long white beard, which he had never shaven Since Henry's death, down-sweeping to the chain, Wherewith they bound him to the stake, he stood More like an ancient father of the Church, Than heretic of these times; and still the friars Plied him, but Cranmer only shook his head, Or answer'd them in smiling negatives; Whereat Lord Williams gave a sudden cry:-- 'Make short! make short!' and so they lit the wood.
Then Cranmer lifted his left hand to heaven, And thrust his right into the bitter flame; And crying, in his deep voice, more than once, 'This hath offended--this unworthy hand!'
So held it till it all was burn'd, before The flame had reach'd his body; I stood near-- Mark'd him--he never uttered moan of pain: He never stirr'd or writhed, but, like a statue, Unmoving in the greatness of the flame, Gave up the ghost; and so past martyr-like-- Martyr I may not call him--past--but whither?
PAGET. To purgatory, man, to purgatory.
PETERS. Nay, but, my Lord, he denied purgatory.
PAGET. Why then to heaven, and God ha' mercy on him.
HOWARD. Paget, despite his fearful heresies, I loved the man, and needs must moan for him; O Cranmer!
PAGET. But your moan is useless now: Come out, my Lord, it is a world of fools.
[_Exeunt_.