Part 25 (2/2)

Well, burn me or not burn me I am fixt; It is but a communion, not a ma.s.s: 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.

CRANMER. Give it me, then.

[_He writes_.

VILLA GARCIA. Now sign.

CRANMER. I have sign'd enough, and I will sign no more.

VILLA GARCIA. It is no more than what you have sign'd already, The public form thereof.

CRANMER. It may be so; I sign it with my presence, if I read it.

VILLA GARCIA. But this is idle of you. Well, sir, well, You are to beg the people to pray for you; Exhort them to a pure and virtuous life; Declare the Queen's right to the throne; confess Your faith before all hearers; and retract That Eucharistic doctrine in your book.

Will you not sign it now?

CRANMER. No, Villa Garcia, I sign no more. Will they have mercy on me?

VILLA GARCIA. Have you good hopes of mercy!

So, farewell.

[_Exit_.

CRANMER. Good hopes, not theirs, have I that I am fixt, Fixt beyond fall; however, in strange hours, After the long brain-dazing colloquies, And thousand-times recurring argument Of those two friars ever in my prison, When left alone in my despondency, Without a friend, a book, my faith would seem Dead or half-drown'd, or else swam heavily Against the huge corruptions of the Church, Monsters of mistradition, old enough To scare me into dreaming, 'what am I, Cranmer, against whole ages?' was it so, Or am I slandering my most inward friend, To veil the fault of my most outward foe-- The soft and tremulous coward in the flesh?

O higher, holier, earlier, purer church, I have found thee and not leave thee any more.

It is but a communion, not a ma.s.s-- No sacrifice, but a life-giving feast!

(_Writes_.) So, so; this will I say--thus will I pray.

[_Puts up the paper_.

_Enter_ BONNER.

BONNER. Good day, old friend; what, you look somewhat worn; And yet it is a day to test your health Ev'n at the best: I scarce have spoken with you Since when?--your degradation. At your trial Never stood up a bolder man than you; You would not cap the Pope's commissioner-- Your learning, and your stoutness, and your heresy, Dumbfounded half of us. So, after that, We had to dis-archbishop and unlord, And make you simple Cranmer once again.

The common barber dipt your hair, and I Sc.r.a.ped from your finger-points the holy oil; And worse than all, you had to kneel to _me_; Which was not pleasant for you, Master Cranmer.

Now you, that would not recognise the Pope, And you, that would not own the Real Presence, Have found a real presence in the stake, Which frights you back into the ancient faith: And so you have recanted to the Pope.

How are the mighty fallen, Master Cranmer!

CRANMER. You have been more fierce against the Pope than I; But why fling back the stone he strikes me with?

[_Aside_.

O Bonner, if I ever did you kindness-- Power hath been given you to try faith by fire-- Pray you, remembering how yourself have changed, Be somewhat pitiful, after I have gone, To the poor flock--to women and to children-- That when I was archbishop held with me.

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