MORE When comes that vow out?

FALKNER Why, when the humours are purged; not these three years.

MORE

Vows are recorded in the court of heaven,

For they are holy acts. Young man, I charge thee

And do advise thee start not from that vow.

And for I will be sure thou shalt not shear,

Besides because it is an odious sight

To see a man thus hairy, thou shalt lie

In Newgate till thy vow and thy three years

Be full expired.—Away with him.

FALKNER My lord—

MORE

Cut off this fleece and lie there but a month.

FALKNER I’ll not lose a hair to be Lord Chancellor of Europe.

MORE

To Newgate then. Sirrah, great sins are bred

In all that body where there’s a foul head.

Away with him. Exeunt ⌈all but Randall⌉

Enter Surrey, Erasmus, and attendants

SURREY

Now, great Erasmus, you approach the presence

Of a most worthy learned gentleman.

This little isle holds not a truer friend

Unto the arts; nor doth his greatness add

A feigned flourish to his worthy parts.

He’s great in study: that’s the statist’s grace

That gains more reverence than the outward place.

ERASMUS

Report, my lord, hath crossed the narrow seas,

And to the several parts of Christendom

Hath borne the fame of your Lord Chancellor.

I long to see him whom with loving thoughts

I in my study oft have visited.

Is that Sir Thomas More?

SURREY

It is, Erasmus.

Now shall you view the honourablest scholar,

The most religious politician,

The worthiest counsellor, that tends our state.

That study is the general watch of England.

In it, the Prince’s safety and the peace

That shines upon our commonwealth are forged

By loyal industry.

ERASMUS

I doubt him not

To be as near the life of excellence

As you proclaim him, when his meanest servants

Are of some weight. You saw, my lord, his porter

Give entertainment to us at the gate

In Latin good phrase. What’s the master, then,

When such good parts shine in his meanest men?

SURREY

His lordship hath some weighty business,

For, see, as yet he takes no notice of us.

ERASMUS

I think ’twere best I did my duty to him

In a short Latin speech.

⌈He takes off his hat and addresses Randall⌉

Qui in celeberrima patria natus est et gloriosa plus habet

negotii ut in lucem veniat quam qui—

RANDALL I prithee, good Erasmus, be covered. I have forsworn speaking of Latin else, as I am true councillor, I’d tickle you with a speech. Nay, sit, Erasmus. Sit, good my lord of Surrey. I’ll make my lady come to you anon, if she will, and give you entertainment.

ERASMUS

Is this Sir Thomas More?

SURREY

O good Erasmus,

You must conceive his vein. He’s ever furnished

With these conceits.

RANDALL Yes, faith, my learned poet doth not lie for that matter. I am neither more nor less than merry Sir Thomas always. Wilt’ sup with me? By God, I love a parlous wise fellow that smells of a politician better than a long progress. Enter Sir Thomas More

SURREY

We are deluded. This is not his lordship.

RANDALL I pray you, Erasmus, how long will the Holland cheese in your country keep without maggots?

MORE

Fool, painted barbarism, retire thyself

Into thy first creation. Thus you see,

My loving learned friends, how far respect

Waits often on the ceremonious train

Of base illiterate wealth, whilst men of schools,

Shrouded in poverty, are counted fools.

Pardon, thou reverend German, I have mixed

So slight a jest to the fair entertainment

Of thy most worthy self. For know, Erasmus,

Mirth wrinkles up my face, and I still crave

When that forsakes me I may hug my grave.

Aut tu Erasmus aut diabolus.

ERASMUS

Your honour’s merry humour is best physic

Unto your able body, for we learn

Where melancholy chokes the passages

Of blood and breath, the erected spirit still

Lengthens our days with sportful exercise.

Study should be the saddest time of life;

The rest a sport exempt from thought of strife.

MORE

Erasmus preacheth gospel against physic.—

My noble poet—

SURREY O my lord, you tax me

In that word ‘poet’ of much idleness.

It is a study that makes poor our fate.

Poets were ever thought unfit for state.

MORE

O, give not up fair poesy, sweet lord,

To such contempt. That I may speak my heart,

It is the sweetest heraldry of art

That sets a difference ’tween the tough, sharp holly

And tender bay tree.

SURREY Yet, my lord,

It is become the very lag i’ number

To all mechanic sciences.

MORE Why I’ll show the reason

This is no age for poets. They should sing

To the loud canon heroica facta:

Qui faciunt reges heroica carmina laudant;

And, as great subjects of their pen decay,

Even so, unphysicked, they do melt away.

Enter Master Morris

Come, will your lordship in? My dear Erasmus—

I’ll hear you, Master Morris, presently.—

⌈To Erasmus⌉ My lord, I make you master of my house.

We’ll banquet here with fresh and staid delights.

The Muses’ music here shall cheer our spirits.

The cates must be but mean where scholars sit;

For they’re made all with courses of neat wit.