HERBERT.
Oh,
Thomas;
I could fall down and worship thee, my Thomas,
For thou hast trodden this wine-press alone.
BECKET.
Nay, of the people there are many with me.
WALTER MAP. I am not altogether with you, my
lord, tho’ I am none of those that would raise
a storm between you, lest ye should draw together like
two ships in a calm. You wrong the King:
he meant what he said to-day. Who shall vouch
for his to-morrows? One word further. Doth
not the fewness of anything make the fulness
of it in estimation? Is not virtue prized mainly
for its rarity and great baseness loathed as an exception:
for were all, my lord, as noble as yourself, who would
look up to you? and were all as base as—who
shall I say—Fitzurse and his following—who
would look down upon them? My lord, you have put
so many of the King’s household out of communion,
that they begin to smile at it.
BECKET.
At their peril, at their peril—
WALTER MAP. —For tho’ the drop
may hollow out the dead stone, doth not the living
skin thicken against perpetual whippings? This
is the second grain of good counsel I ever proffered
thee, and so cannot suffer by the rule of frequency.
Have I sown it in salt? I trust not, for before
God I promise you the King hath many more wolves than
he can tame in his woods of England, and if it suit
their purpose to howl for the King, and you still
move against him, you may have no less than to die
for it; but God and his free wind grant your lordship
a happy home-return and the King’s kiss of peace
in Kent. Farewell! I must follow the King.
[Exit.
HERBERT.
Ay, and I warrant the customs. Did the King
Speak of the customs?
BECKET.
No!—To
die for it—
I live to die for it, I die to live for it.
The State will die, the Church can never die.
The King’s not like to die for that which dies;
But I must die for that which never dies.
It will be so—my visions in the Lord:
It must be so, my friend! the wolves of England
Must murder her one shepherd, that the sheep
May feed in peace. False figure, Map would say.
Earth’s falses are heaven’s truths.
And when my voice
Is martyr’d mute, and this man disappears,
That perfect trust may come again between us,
And there, there, there, not here I shall rejoice
To find my stray sheep back within the fold.
The crowd are scattering, let us move away!
And thence to England.
[Exeunt.
SCENE I.—The Outskirts of the Bower.
GEOFFREY (coming out of the wood).
Light again! light again! Margery? no, that’s
a finer thing there. How
it glitters!
ELEANOR (entering).
Come to me, little one. How camest thou hither?
