Sc. 12 Enter the Bishop of Rochester, Surrey, Shrewsbury, Lieutenant of the Tower, and warders with weapons
ROCHESTER
Your kind persuasions, honourable lords,
I can but thank ye for, but in this breast
There lives a soul that aims at higher things
Than temporary pleasing earthly kings.
God bless his highness, even with all my heart.
We shall meet one day, though that now we part.
SURREY
We not misdoubt your wisdom can discern
What best befits it; yet in love and zeal
We could entreat it might be otherwise.
SHREWSBURY [to Rochester]
No doubt your fatherhood will by yourself
Consider better of the present case,
And grow as great in favour as before.
ROCHESTER
For that, as pleaseth God, in my restraint
From worldly causes I shall better see
Into myself than at proud liberty.
The Tower and I will privately confer
Of things wherein at freedom I may err.
But I am troublesome unto your honours,
And hold ye longer than becomes my duty.
Master Lieutenant, I am now your charge;
And, though you keep my body, yet my love
Waits on my king and you while Fisher lives.
SURREY
Farewell, my lord of Rochester. We’ll pray
or your release, and labour’t as we may.
SHREWSBURY [to Rochester]
Thereof assure yourself. So do we leave ye,
And to your happy private thoughts bequeath ye.
Exeunt Lords
ROCHESTER
Now, Master Lieutenant, on; i’ God’s name, go;
And with as glad a mind go I with you
As ever truant bade the school adieu.
Exeunt
Sc. 13 Enter Sir Thomas More, his Lady, Daughters, ⌈one of them Roper’s Wife,⌉ Master Roper, Gentlemen and Servants ⌈amongst them Catesby and Gough⌉ as in his house at Chelsea. Low stools
MORE
Good morrow, good son Roper. [To Lady More] Sit, good
madam,
Upon an humble seat; the time so craves.
Rest your good heart on earth, the roof of graves.
You see the floor of greatness is uneven,
The cricket and high throne alike near heaven.
Now, daughters, you that like to branches spread
And give best shadow to a private house:
Be comforted, my girls. Your hopes stand fair.
Virtue breeds gentry; she makes the best heir.
BOTH DAUGHTERS
Good morrow to your honour.
MORE
Nay, good night rather.
Your honour’s crest-fall’n with your happy father.
ROPER
O, what formality, what square observance,
Lives in a little room! Here public care
Gags not the eyes of slumber. Here fierce riot
Ruffles not proudly in a coat of trust
Whilst, like a pawn at chess, he keeps in rank
With kings and mighty fellows. Yet indeed,
Those men that stand on tiptoe smile to see
Him pawn his fortunes.
MORE
True, son, here’s not so,
Nor does the wanton tongue here screw itself
Into the ear, that like a vice drinks up
The iron instrument.
LADY MORE
We are here at peace.
MORE Then peace, good wife.
LADY MORE
For keeping still in compass—a strange point
In time’s new navigation—we have sailed
Beyond our course.
MORE
Have done.
LADY MORE
We are exiled the court.
MORE Still thou harp’st on that.
‘Tis sin for to deserve that banishment;
But he that ne’er knew court courts sweet content.
LADY MORE
O, but dear husband—
MORE
I will not hear thee, wife.
The winding labyrinth of thy strange discourse
Will ne’er have end. Sit still, and, my good wife,
Entreat thy tongue be stilt—or, credit me,
Thou shalt not understand a word we speak.
We’ll talk in Latin.
[To Roper] Humida vallis raros patitur fulminis ictus.
More rest enjoys the subject meanly bred
Than he that bears the kingdom in his head.
ROPER
Great men are still musicians, else the world lies:
They learn low strains after the notes that rise.
Good sir, be still yourself, and but remember
How in this general court of short-lived pleasure
The world, creation is the ample food
That is digested in the maw of time.
If man himself be subject to such ruin,
How shall his garment then, or the loose points
That tie respect unto his awe-ful place,
Avoid destruction? Most honoured father-in-law,
The blood you have bequeathed these several hearts
To nourish your posterity stands firm;
And as with joy you led us first to rise,
So with like hearts we’ll lock preferment’s eyes.
[Original Text (Munday)]
[Addition I (Chettle)]
MORE
Now will I speak like More in melancholy;
For if griefs power could with her sharpest darts
Pierce my firm bosom, here’s sufficient cause
To take my farewell of mirth’s hurtless laws.
Poor humbled lady, thou that wert of late
Placed with the noblest women of the land,
Invited to their angel companies,
Seeming a bright star in the courtly sphere:
Why shouldst thou like a widow sit thus low,
And all thy fair consorts move from the clouds
That overdrip thy beauty and thy worth?