Queen Mary and Harold | Page 3

And stand within the porch,
and Christ with me: My flight were such a scandal to the faith, The
downfall of so many simple souls, I dare not leave my post.
PETER MARTYR. But you divorced Queen Catharine and her father;
hence, her hate Will burn till you are burn'd.
CRANMER. I cannot help it. The Canonists and Schoolmen were with
me. 'Thou shalt not wed thy brother's wife.'--'Tis written, 'They shall be
childless.' True, Mary was born, But France would not accept her for a
bride As being born from incest; and this wrought Upon the king; and
child by child, you know, Were momentary sparkles out as quick
Almost as kindled; and he brought his doubts And fears to me. Peter,
I'll swear for him He did believe the bond incestuous. But wherefore
am I trenching on the time That should already have seen your steps a
mile From me and Lambeth? God be with you! Go.
PETER MARTYR. Ah, but how fierce a letter you wrote against Their
superstition when they slander'd you For setting up a mass at
Canterbury To please the Queen.
CRANMER. It was a wheedling monk Set up the mass.
PETER MARTYR. I know it, my good Lord. But you so bubbled over
with hot terms Of Satan, liars, blasphemy, Antichrist, She never will
forgive you. Fly, my Lord, fly!
CRANMER. I wrote it, and God grant me power to burn!
PETER MARTYR. They have given me a safe conduct: for all that I
dare not stay. I fear, I fear, I see you, Dear friend, for the last time;
farewell, and fly.
CRANMER. Fly and farewell, and let me die the death. [Exit PETER

MARTYR.
Enter OLD SERVANT.
O, kind and gentle master, the Queen's Officers Are here in force to
take you to the Tower.
CRANMER. Ay, gentle friend, admit them. I will go. I thank my God it
is too late to fly.
[Exeunt.

SCENE III.--ST. PAUL'S CROSS.
FATHER BOURNE in the pulpit. A CROWD. MARCHIONESS OF
EXETER, COURTENAY. The SIEUR DE NOAILLES and his man
ROGER _in front of the stage. Hubbub_.
NOAILLES. Hast thou let fall those papers in the palace?
ROGER. Ay, sir.
NOAILLES. 'There will be no peace for Mary till Elizabeth lose her
head.'
ROGER. Ay, sir.
NOAILLES. And the other, 'Long live Elizabeth the Queen!'
ROGER. Ay, sir; she needs must tread upon them.
NOAILLES. Well. These beastly swine make such a grunting here, I
cannot catch what Father Bourne is saying.
ROGER. Quiet a moment, my masters; hear what the shaveling has to
say for himself.
CROWD. Hush--hear!
BOURNE.--and so this unhappy land, long divided in itself, and sever'd
from the faith, will return into the one true fold, seeing that our
gracious Virgin Queen hath----
CROWD. No pope! no pope!
ROGER (_to those about him, mimicking_ BOURNE).--hath sent for
the holy legate of the holy father the Pope, Cardinal Pole, to give us all
that holy absolution which----
FIRST CITIZEN. Old Bourne to the life!

SECOND CITIZEN. Holy absolution! holy Inquisition!
THIRD CITIZEN. Down with the Papist! [Hubbub.
BOURNE.--and now that your good bishop, Bonner, who hath lain so
long under bonds for the faith-- [Hubbub.
NOAILLES. Friend Roger, steal thou in among the crowd, And get the
swine to shout Elizabeth. Yon gray old Gospeller, sour as midwinter,
Begin with him.
ROGER (_goes_). By the mass, old friend, we'll have no pope here
while the Lady Elizabeth lives.
GOSPELLER. Art thou of the true faith, fellow, that swearest by the
mass?
ROGER. Ay, that am I, new converted, but the old leaven sticks to my
tongue yet.
FIRST CITIZEN. He says right; by the mass we'll have no mass here.
VOICES OF THE CROWD. Peace! hear him; let his own words damn
the Papist. From thine own mouth I judge thee--tear him down!
BOURNE.--and since our Gracious Queen, let me call her our second
Virgin Mary, hath begun to re-edify the true temple----,
FIRST CITIZEN. Virgin Mary! we'll have no virgins here--we'll have
the Lady Elizabeth!
[_Swords are drawn, a knife is hurled and sticks in the pulpit. The mob
throng to the pulpit stairs_.
MARCHIONESS OF EXETER. Son Courtenay, wilt thou see the holy
father Murdered before thy face? up, son, and save him! They love thee,
and thou canst not come to harm.
COURTENAY (_in the pulpit_). Shame, shame, my masters! are you
English-born, And set yourselves by hundreds against one?
CROWD. A Courtenay! a Courtenay!
[A train of Spanish servants crosses at the back of the stage.
NOAILLES. These birds of passage come before their time: Stave off
the crowd upon the Spaniard there.
ROGER. My masters, yonder's fatter game for you Than this old
gaping gurgoyle: look you there-- The Prince of Spain coming to wed
our Queen!