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.
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.
