I am glad that France hath scouted him at last: I told the Pope what manner of man he was.

[_Exit_.

ROGER OF YORK.

Yea, since he flouts the will of either realm, Let either cast him away like a dead dog!

[_Exit_.

FOLIOT.

Yea, let a stranger spoil his heritage, And let another take his bishop.r.i.c.k!

[_Exit_.

DE BROC.

Our castle, my lord, belongs to Canterbury.

I pray you come and take it. [_Exit_.

FITZURSE.

When you will.

[_Exit_.

BECKET.

Cursed be John of Oxford, Roger of York, And Gilbert Foliot! cursed those De Brocs That hold our Saltwood Castle from our see!

Cursed Fitzurse, and all the rest of them That sow this hate between my lord and me!

_Voices from the Crowd_.

Blessed be the Lord Archbishop, who hath withstood two Kings to their faces for the honour of G.o.d.

BECKET.

Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, praise!

I thank you, sons; when kings but hold by crowns, The crowd that hungers for a crown in Heaven Is my true king.

HERBERT.

Thy true King bad thee be A fisher of men; thou hast them in thy net.

BECKET.

I am too like the King here; both of us Too headlong for our office. Better have been A fisherman at Bosham, my good Herbert, Thy birthplace--the sea-creek--the petty rill That falls into it--the green field--the gray church-- The simple lobster-basket, and the mesh-- The more or less of daily labour done-- The pretty gaping bills in the home-nest Piping for bread--the daily want supplied-- The daily pleasure to supply it.

HERBERT.

Ah, Thomas, You had not borne it, no, not for a day.

BECKET.

Well, maybe, no.

HERBERT.

But bear with Walter Map, For here he comes to comment on the time.

_Enter_ WALTER MAP.

WALTER MAP.

Pity, my lord, that you have quenched the warmth of France toward you, tho' His Holiness, after much smouldering and smoking, be kindled again upon your quarter.

BECKET.

Ay, if he do not end in smoke again.

WALTER MAP.

My lord, the fire, when first kindled, said to the smoke, 'Go up, my son, straight to Heaven.' And the smoke said, 'I go;' but anon the North-east took and turned him South-west, then the South-west turned him North-east, and so of the other winds; but it was in him to go up straight if the time had been quieter. Your lordship affects the unwavering perpendicular; but His Holiness, pushed one way by the Empire and another by England, if he move at all, Heaven stay him, is fain to diagonalise.

HERBERT.

Diagonalise! thou art a word-monger!

Our Thomas never will diagonalise.

Thou art a jester and a verse-maker.

Diagonalise!

WALTER MAP.

Is the world any the worse for my verses if the Latin rhymes be rolled out from a full mouth? or any harm done to the people if my jest be in defence of the Truth?

BECKET.

Ay, if the jest be so done that the people Delight to wallow in the grossness of it, Till Truth herself be shamed of her defender.

_Non defensoribus istis_, Walter Map.

WALTER MAP.

Is that my case? so if the city be sick, and I cannot call the kennel sweet, your lordship would suspend me from verse-writing, as you suspended yourself after subwriting to the customs.

BECKET.

I pray G.o.d pardon mine infirmity.

WALTER MAP.

Nay, my lord, take heart; for tho' you suspended yourself, the Pope let you down again; and tho' you suspend Foliot or another, the Pope will not leave them in suspense, for the Pope himself is always in suspense, like Mahound's coffin hung between heaven and earth--always in suspense, like the scales, till the weight of Germany or the gold of England brings one of them down to the dust--always in suspense, like the tail of the horologe--to and fro--tick-tack--we make the time, we keep the time, ay, and we serve the time; for I have heard say that if you boxed the Pope's ears with a purse, you might stagger him, but he would pocket the purse. No saying of mine--Jocelyn of Salisbury. But the King hath bought half the College of Red-hats. He warmed to you to-day, and you have chilled him again. Yet you both love G.o.d. Agree with him quickly again, even for the sake of the Church. My one grain of good counsel which you will not swallow. I hate a split between old friendships as I hate the dirty gap in the face of a Cistercian monk, that will swallow anything. Farewell.

[_Exit_.

BECKET.

Map scoffs at Rome. I all but hold with Map.

Save for myself no Rome were left in England, All had been his. Why should this Rome, this Rome, Still choose Barabbas rather than the Christ, Absolve the left-hand thief and d.a.m.n the right?

Take fees of tyranny, wink at sacrilege, Which even Peter had not dared? condemn The blameless exile?--

HERBERT.

Thee, thou holy Thomas!

I would that thou hadst been the Holy Father.

BECKET.

I would have done my most to keep Rome holy, I would have made Rome know she still is Rome-- Who stands aghast at her eternal self And shakes at mortal kings--her vacillation, Avarice, craft--O G.o.d, how many an innocent Has left his bones upon the way to Rome Unwept, uncared for. Yea--on mine own self The King had had no power except for Rome.

'Tis not the King who is guilty of mine exile, But Rome, Rome, Rome!

HERBERT.

My lord, I see this Louis Returning, ah! to drive thee from his realm.

BECKET.

He said as much before. Thou art no prophet, Nor yet a prophet's son.

HERBERT.